


Loving the Inferno

by coquettish_murder_muffin



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asphyxiation, Bad Decisions, Blow Jobs, Bottom Hannibal, Coquettish Hannibal, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Empath Will Graham, Falling In Love, Family Secrets, Hallucinations, Hannibal is a Tease, Implied Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Intercrural Sex, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Murder Muffin Hannibal, Older Man/Younger Man, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Resolved Sexual Tension, Role Reversal, Seduction, Stalking, Will Loves Hannibal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2018-11-06 08:07:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 65,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11032107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coquettish_murder_muffin/pseuds/coquettish_murder_muffin
Summary: “I see you,” he admits, quiet, as if Francis might overhear them.“Help me, Will,” Hannibal whispers back. “Please."Already enchanted with his lovely, hypersexual patient with homicidal tendencies, psychiatrist Will Graham has a Bad Time™ fighting off the advances of a persistent young Hannibal Lecter after they go through the emotional trauma of burying a dead body together.Featuring a dead Dragon, jilted lover Frederick Chilton, a border collie named Dante, and a monster or two.





	1. Chapter 1

Will Graham’s appointments range from chaotic to indifferent, and hardly anything else in between. He deals with patients that regularly break down sobbing and can’t stop, snotting all over themselves, like poor Franklyn Froideveaux. Will buys tissues in bulk just for him, the kind that he prefers. (He complains if the paper is too rough on his round nose.) But Franklyn has a kind heart, and Will continues to see him despite his obsessive behavior. He’s seen worse. Not too long ago, Will was confronted in the parking lot outside his office by an overly-aggressive patient. They pointed a loaded gun at his head, but he managed to dodge the not-so-metaphorical bullet. He talked to him and called the authorities after, to save himself as much as his patient. He filed a restraining order and stopped seeing him, made the conscious decision not to think about him anymore. He refused to let it affect his work; Franklyn would never hurt him. There was absolutely no reason to live in fear of other, more harmless neurotics that needed his help.

Will’s other patients keep their distance, jaws set, telling their lies and avoiding the truths they pay him to help them face head-on. Despite this, he does his best to provide guidance and a source of stability in their lives, and they get what they need from him. He’s very good at what he does. He can empathize with them completely, even if they aren’t being entirely forthcoming. It’s been both a blessing and a curse throughout his thirty-odd years, exhausting his sympathy and making him weary, testing his patience and his strength, spurring him to drink in the evening hours at home. But not today. One of his patients always provides an escape from his frayed nerves in the few months they’ve known each other. Their exchanges are easy, natural. Will relaxes, and the counseling flows from him quicker than normal, less tentative. He understands this one better than the rest, yet he doesn’t. Talking with him is both an exercise in restraint and a puzzle for the mind. It’s almost friendly. It’s a shame the boy is so young, that friendship with him would be inappropriate, even if they weren’t already patient and psychiatrist. _It’s a shame_ , Will thinks again absently, ashamed when he realizes his eyes are dragging and lingering over the young man’s figure as he walks.

Hannibal Lecter paces the length of the dim office like a caged tiger, tight muscles moving under his dress shirt and slacks, speaking occasionally and stopping whenever he wants to stress a certain point. When they first met, he was stiffly formal. Will takes note of the freed buttons and the exposed, likely soft skin of Hannibal’s throat. It had been gradual. One button undone every few weeks. More colorful, form-fitting outfits. His posture had changed, too. Increasingly suggestive, inviting. He touches Will often. He asks invasive questions, stares inappropriately, and says equally inappropriate things. Or it would be inappropriate, if Will wasn’t his psychiatrist. Will must keep reminding himself. Hannibal shouldn’t surprise him, but he does. Hannibal approaches him in public, too regularly for it to be purely coincidence, but he’s always the first to leave. Will doesn’t know how to tell him to stop, since Hannibal ends the conversations on his own, sometimes before Will is ready to say goodbye. Will likes watching Hannibal walk away. He likes the view. 

That’s the whole point, of course. It’s exactly what Hannibal wants.

Supposedly, he's addicted to sex.

Will isn’t so much convinced it’s an addiction as it is Hannibal doing whatever he likes, whenever he likes. He has astonishing self-control, he shows restraint—but he fucks who he feels like fucking, much to the dismay of his miserable boyfriend. And it happens often. Hannibal is aware of this problem but has no desire to fix it. He made that very clear from the start, when it came out during one of their first sessions. Hannibal doesn’t even seem to particularly like his current boyfriend. But the poor fellow won’t let him go, and Hannibal is indifferent about whether or not they remain together. He clearly keeps him around for his own amusement, which sounds cruel, but Will keeps his opinions to himself as a general rule, determined not to pass judgment. It’s curiously easy.

Hannibal Lecter is manipulative, regularly bored, hard to impress, impulsive, and promiscuous. He also has a great ass, and he’s kind to animals. On more than one occasion, Will has talked about his seven dogs. Hannibal thinks it’s charming, instead of insane. It makes him a swell guy in Will’s book (of course, the nicely-formed backside helps).

“Frederick suspects,” Hannibal says, finally pausing in his walking. His head tilts back and he heaves out a sigh, deflating. Will realizes he hasn't been listening.

“What does he suspect?”

Hannibal makes an amused noise. His body turns to face Will long before his eyes follow. They’re a dark, muddy maroon, with mesmerizing specks of bright red whenever the light hits them just right. For now, they flicker briefly with mischief. “Preoccupied with your own thoughts, Doctor? What could be more important than me?”

Will doesn’t rise to the bait. “Please, Hannibal, continue.”

“He thinks I’ve been unfaithful.”

“And have you?”

Hannibal looks at him expectantly. “Yes.”

Will chews on the end of his pen, catches himself, and places it inside his notes. “With who?”

“We’ve discussed him before.”

Will’s mouth feels dry.

“Francis?”

“Yes.”

After their last session, Will had investigated the apparently infamous delinquent Francis Dolarhyde through vague questions sent to colleagues and whatever else he could find through a simple Google search. He didn’t like the results, even as he cursed himself for making the mistake of acting on his innate protectiveness for his patient. This particular patient. It was unethical. But fraternizing with Francis was asking for trouble, for missing teeth and worse, a lonely ride in the back of an ambulance to the nearest hospital. There were accusations of rape, though they were eventually dropped. 

He tries to sound nonchalant, even as his stomach churns. His paternal instincts are in full form today. It only occurs with his dogs, and apparently Hannibal. _You should stay away from him, Hannibal._ _What happened with that boy Anthony? He was nice._ He settles for a direct question. “Do you know why you engage in risky sexual behavior?”

“Don’t you?”

“I’m interested in your answer,” Will tells him.

Hannibal clasps his hands behind his back, opening his chest for a deeper stretch. “No,” he says simply. “But you think perhaps I’ve been subjected to sexual abuse, possibly by someone close to me, when I was young. It would explain the impulsive behavior, the constant desire for control, control that would have been denied to me as a child.”

“This happened? Is that what you’re telling me, Hannibal?”

Hannibal wants to laugh, it’s clear in his almost imperceptible smile, but he doesn’t. It’s hidden instead in his voice, just the slightest huff before he speaks, “No, Doctor Graham. I’m telling you Frederick is being a nuisance.”

Hannibal has his full attention now, just as he wanted. Will purposefully turns away, facing forward, hands resting politely in his lap. He waits. “Tell me about Frederick. What is he saying? How do you feel about your current situation with him?”

Reluctantly, Hannibal settles into the chair across from him. He wants to be seen. He crosses one long leg over the other, and Will keeps his eyes on Hannibal’s to avoid looking at his thighs, how the fabric hugs well-toned muscle. “He asks me why I would do this to him, how could I, do I feel nothing for him? He cries,” Hannibal says. “He tries to kiss me. It’s pathetic.”

“What do you tell him?”

“I don’t. I let him kiss me. I let him fuck me. He stops asking questions, and I’m free to focus on more important things.”

Will allows his eyes to drift to the ceiling, searching for patience. Hiding his smile. “You told me your aunt is leaving the country soon, when will that be?”

“In a few days, visiting friends. I’m required to stay. My education is more important, she says.”

“You’ll be alone.”

“I’m always alone,” Hannibal says flatly. Not surprisingly, there is depth in that statement. Hannibal chooses to ignore it, inspecting his nails with little interest in what he finds. “Being eighteen, I’m old enough to survive a few days alone, don’t you think? I’ve been fully capable of caring for myself since I was six.”

Will takes his chance to observe the dark shadows that fall over him, how they accentuate his high cheekbones and the not-so-sharp curves over the rest of him. “I know that you technically live on campus, but you seem to spend extended periods of time at your aunt’s house, or with her. You're close. Have you thought about what you will do to keep yourself occupied once she leaves? It might affect you more than you think,” he adds, silently hoping Hannibal won’t mention Francis Dolarhyde. Surely he has a plethora of companions to choose from to keep him company. It won't need to be Francis.

“I’ve considered cooking dinner,” Hannibal says. “Inviting Francis.”

Of course it would be Francis.

“How do you imagine Frederick will react?” Will asks.

“He won’t know,” Hannibal purrs, his eyes gleaming. “Unless you plan on exposing me, Will?”

“Doctor Graham is fine, please.”

“Are you sure? You look a little flushed.”

Who knows whether Hannibal actively trying to make him blush, or if he’s already red in the face. Will smiles a lopsided smile, letting himself fall face-first into the joke, because it feels good. It feels good to see Hannibal smile, even at Will’s expense. Despite all the pestering, Hannibal is good company. He’s also good at disguising his hurt. But Will isn’t blind to the relief visible in Hannibal's body language when he walks through that door, shrugging off the heavy weight he carries, and relaxes so completely in Will’s presence. It might be the only time he does. If it's only a fraction of what Will feels around him, Will is happy for it. 

“All the time we have for today, I’m afraid.” He forces his mouth into a straight line, hiding behind formalities. “Same time next week?”

“God willing,” Hannibal quips cheerfully, rising to stand. Will rolls his eyes good-naturedly, secretly reveling in the delight flashing in Hannibal's eyes. He walks to the patient exit and reaches for door handle, and suddenly a hand covers his own. 

Hannibal’s fingers burn with heat where they touch, and they are touching well. Warm and smooth. Will forgets how to breathe, inhaling sharply from the unexpected contact. Despite his instincts screaming for him to remove himself, he waits, eventually lifting his own blue eyes to meet crimson. They’re almost black now, pupils blown wide with…is it want? He’s close, he’s much too close. He smells like fire and his eyes are searing. Will blinks hard and looks away. His hand is cold and lonesome when he shakes Hannibal off without a word, turning the knob and opening the door for his patient, his _patient_ , stepping back to let him through.

Will is overwhelmingly disappointed to see Murasaki Shikibu on the other side. She stands and reaches for her nephew with open arms. His beautiful aunt Murasaki is attached to him always, dependent and fostering codependency, waiting for him after his sessions and taking his arm when they leave. She praises him with soft eyes and adoring glances, and the intimate way she touches him is unsettling. Will doesn’t like it. It isn’t familial. He can’t decide if he’s upset because she’s supposed to be Hannibal’s guardian, or because she’s Will’s age. It does nothing to help his shame, because he's being hypocritical and he knows it.

But if she has touched him, before he was of age…Will makes himself reel his suspicions back in. He can't go down that road. If it's true, it'll come out in therapy.

“Good evening, Doctor Graham,” Murasaki says, ever-pleasant. She smells divine, as usual. She’s quick-witted and beautiful, with flawless skin and long black hair, and her shoulders are covered in furs. Hannibal inherits his taste from her. It’s hard to dislike her, but Will tries. She tangles her fingers with Hannibal’s and smiles at him fondly. “Darling, button your shirt, aren’t you cold? Put on your coat. You never leave the house like this, I don’t understand.”

Hannibal has the decency to look sheepish. Mildly amused, Will imagines Hannibal fussing over himself in the parking lot, adjusting his clothes and his hair in the side mirror, freezing his ass off, all for the attention of his psychiatrist. It sounds about right.

“I’m taking my nephew out tonight, as a farewell. He has behaved himself, earned it I hope?” Murasaki shares a knowing look with Hannibal, prepared to scold him if she must. 

“Of course,” Will all but grumbles, not playing along. He isn’t inclined to tell her much of anything. Hannibal is an adult.

He shoves his hands in his pockets. He wishes he hadn’t opened that door, and he wishes he had opened it sooner. He avoids Hannibal’s searching eyes and bids them a polite good night, and puts the barrier back in place where it belongs. Leaning against the closed door, he rubs at his face and knocks his glasses askew. He folds and tucks them away, takes a few calming breaths, cracks his neck, and shakes it off.

He won't think about Hannibal touching him, but he does dream about it.

It would be impossible to purge the boy from his mind when Hannibal spends each moment in Will’s presence ensuring a long-lasting impression. He succeeds each time, but hopefully he’ll never know it. Hannibal often visited Will in his dreams after they met, in flashes of color and sound. It’s more tangible these days, and Will sincerely wishes it wasn’t. He doesn’t like sitting in his office, meeting Hannibal’s eyes, and remembering what he dreamed the night before or two nights ago, or the week before that. It started innocently enough, merely conversations or brief glimpses of skin, but his unconscious thoughts escalated the more Hannibal taunted him in the waking world. He was curious what sort of sounds Hannibal might make, if Will could just…but he can't.

He will never act on these desires. 

He manages to rid his mind of Hannibal over the course of the next few days, fishing in the creek close to his house and seeing his remaining patients in the city, handing tissues to poor, neurotic Franklyn, adjusting medications and doling out exercises for coping. It's mostly uneventful.

After drinking at a local bar, and ignoring the loneliness chewing his insides, he crawls into bed with his dogs. He pretends he doesn’t yearn for a warm, human body to hold. He’s never been very good at keeping one. It’s hard enough for him to have friends, without winning someone's heart in the background. It wouldn’t be fair to them. As much as he relates to his patients, as much as he _understands_ , he’s piss-poor at tending to the needs of his partners or acquaintances. Needless to say, he has few friends. Fewer are those currently on speaking terms with him.  

So, he doesn’t expect to be called at three in the morning on the weekend.

Fumbling about for his ringing phone, he sends something crashing to the floor. One of the dogs flinches, squeezing their poked eye shut. He leans over to sleepily kiss the victim’s head, before he grabs the slippery phone and holds it against the side of his head. His confusion is probably evident in his exhausted mumbling. “Will Graham? Who is this?”

“You said I could use this number if it was an emergency. It’s an emergency, I think.”

He recognizes that husky voice, but it sounds strange.

“Hannibal?”

It's an emergency. He does what he does best, and leaps to the worst case scenario. It's happened before, but with Franklyn. He had to talk him down, convince him to call an ambulance. Go to the hospital. Meet him there.

He can't even entertain the thought. “Hannibal, what happened?” He tries not to sound alarmed, but it feels like he’s falling.

“I’m not entirely sure, if I’m being honest with you.”

Will shoots out of bed, flicking on as many lights as he can. He’s wide awake now. “Where are you? Can you answer that for me?”

“My aunt’s house,” Hannibal says. He’s unnervingly quiet, detached. “She’s gone. It’s just me…” He trails off and doesn’t offer anything else.

“All right, Hannibal, that’s okay. Are you hurt?”

“I’m…I might be, I suppose, I don’t know. I haven't checked. Will, please, could you come? Don’t,” he adds quickly, struggling with something, “Just you. Don't tell anyone else.”

“If you’re in immediate danger, I have to—”

“The dangerous part is over. Please. I didn’t know what else to do. I feel like if you’re here, I might figure it out. _Please_ , Will. I need your help.”

Will hasn’t heard him desperate before, and it’s breaking his heart.

Behind the wheel, he realizes he’s still tipsy from the alcohol he tossed back earlier, but he refuses to abandon Hannibal now. He has one hand firmly gripping the wheel, the other holding his phone up. He’s still listening and Hannibal has been relatively quiet, just breathing. It’s shallow, hitching once in a while. It’s worries him.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Will asks, and he can practically see the noncommittal shrug in the silence that follows. “Okay. You can tell me when I get there. I’ll stay on the phone with you, okay? You’re fine like this?”

“I wouldn’t say I'm fine,” Hannibal says. His throat sounds sore. He’s been screaming. “I’m _alive._ ”

Will doesn’t know how to respond.

“Do you want me to call your aunt?”

“No.”

“How about Frederick?”

“Oh, definitely not, but thank you for offering.”

It occurs to him several minutes later, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Hannibal could easily be making this up. Will wants to believe that would be absurd, but he knows Hannibal, and Hannibal isn’t above that level of manipulation. He might want company. It's possible he couldn’t deal with his aunt leaving, couldn’t reach Frederick, or maybe strangers weren’t exciting enough to take home. Maybe he wants someone else, someone he shouldn’t have, just to prove that he can. Will clears his throat, blinking hard to focus on the road, and asks him how he’s doing. Hannibal doesn't answer. Will ends the call when he arrives, the headlights of his car cutting through the darkness and revealing Hannibal sitting on the front porch with the door swung carelessly open, forgotten. 

Will hardly believes what he's seeing.

He doesn’t remember getting out. He doesn’t feel his legs move, they simply carry him to Hannibal’s side, and he sinks to his knees, hovering over him but not touching. He’s afraid to touch. Hannibal’s clothes are stained black. Will knows it’s blood, he smells it before he feels its stickiness. He breaks past his reservations and looks Hannibal over, running his hands down his arms, searching for injury, wondering if Hannibal deliberately harmed himself, but Will can’t find any cuts. He does see, plainly, the bruises around his neck, and the broken vessels in his eyes, the whites now tinged with splotches the same color as his irises. Blood under his nails. His pants are ragged, cut, like someone tried to forcefully remove them with a knife.

Will feels like the biggest asshole in existence for doubting him. He stares at the torn fabric and hot anger boils in his stomach, but he keeps it simmering inside. He removes his coat and blankets it over Hannibal’s shoulders, ignoring the shaking in his own hands, and tilts Hannibal's chin to look up at him. Hannibal’s reddened eyes are unfocused. He’s not here, not currently seeing what’s in front of him. “Tell me what happened,” Will says, surprised to find his voice gentled and controlled. His legs feel like jelly. He reaches for his pocket to dial for help but his phone is missing. He must have left it in the car.

He’s not going to leave Hannibal to get it.

Hannibal leans into the touch, finally returning, his eyes starting to close. Will caresses his cheek, willing to do anything, anything to provide comfort, to ground him in the moment. He can’t see him like this. Hannibal doesn’t _get_ flustered, or hurt, this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Will clenches his teeth and after some quick deliberation, he leans closer, feeling Hannibal press his face into his chest, mouthing into his shirt. Smelling him. Will hopes it helps stimulate his senses enough to bring him out of the fog. He tells himself this is the only reason. It's not because he wants to hold him, protect him. Hannibal is traumatized. He needs him. Will threads his fingers through dark hair, feeling Hannibal gradually begin to stir. He hears him inhale. 

“Remember Francis?”

_Francis Dolarhyde._

Will carefully pries them apart, looking down. 

“Are you hurt? Did he touch you?”

“He tried.” Hannibal’s half-lidded eyes shift toward the open door. “Didn’t, though.”

Will doesn't pull away, even as terror rips through him, makes him dizzy. _Not him. Not Hannibal._ “It’s not your blood, is it?”

Hannibal looks up at him from beneath his lashes. “Nope.”

“Why haven’t you called the police?”

“I think you know why," Hannibal says quietly. 

_No, no, no._

Will steadies himself, brushing a stray hair out of Hannibal's face.

"…Show me." 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Blood makes the air thick, hard to breathe. Walking into the house is like wading through fear itself, tinged with a metallic smell that raises the hair on his arms and the back of his neck in alarm. He hears the front door close. Will follows the small drops of blood marking the floor, stepping around them mindfully. The trail leads him out of the foyer, through the dining room and hall. He keeps his eyes pinned on it, reluctant to lift his head and face the display waiting for him in the kitchen. Hesitant footsteps echo behind him, coming to a stop a few feet away. He doesn’t bother to look over his shoulder. He can see a figure in the corner of his eye, piled on the kitchen floor in a motionless heap. There’s something wrong with this picture. Will is no stranger to dead bodies. He was an officer long before he became a psychiatrist. It always unsettled his stomach, and in the end he didn’t have the guts for the work. He considered himself too unstable. Everyone else agreed. Morbid curiosity mixed with a sense of responsibility makes him look at the scene before him tonight.

This doesn’t compare. He's seen nothing like it. 

Will takes a deep breath, closing his eyes.

_It begins at the steel island in the middle of the room, a conversation that quickly dissolves into an argument. A misunderstanding perhaps, or harmless teasing gone wrong? Outright rejection? Pointed words are exchanged. Francis Dolarhyde loses his temper. He knocks the cutting board and fresh fruit to the floor, the knife clattering alongside them. Hannibal faces him with a look of faint disdain, unafraid, not expecting the sudden wrap of hands around his throat and the heavy body forcing him to the tile. The back of his head connects with the floor, hard. Francis avoids a furious kick to his gut by forcing their bodies together, holding Hannibal down while his grip around the smaller man’s throat tightens. He ignores the scratching nails against his arms, the angry red lines and blooming beads of blood. He holds his head high, keeping his face out of reach. Panic floods Hannibal’s eyes as he struggles to breathe, his life being choked out of him. His attempts to hurt Francis are slowing down, and suddenly they stop altogether._

_He only feigns unconsciousness for a few painfully long seconds, enough for Francis to withdraw one of his hands to fish the pocket knife out of his clothes and start tearing at Hannibal’s pants. His other palm is still spread across Hannibal’s throat, drifting to his chest with pressure behind it, keeping him in place. Hannibal assesses the situation without struggling, waiting, until his eyes open and drift to the fallen paring knife just out of reach. It’s small, easily overlooked. Francis didn’t see it when he threw his fit, or he had forgotten. Hannibal’s arms are spread at his sides where they first dropped. He makes a quick lunge for the knife. As Francis grabs his neck again, pulling at him, Hannibal twists to face him and thrusts the blade into the side of Francis’ throat. Both of them freeze in place, surprised where this had led them, but Hannibal is the first to make a decision. He jerks the knife full across Francis’ throat and blood gushes hot, pouring out onto Hannibal’s shirt before he can push him away._

_Francis writhes on the floor, attempting to cover his wound while he holds tight to the weapon in his hand. Instead of fleeing, or calling for help, Hannibal instinctively advances on him and steps on his wrist. Francis cries out, spitting blood and gagging on it, and drops his knife. Hannibal picks it up, now holding one in each hand. He stares down at Francis, watching him bleed out. Hannibal's chest is heaving, but his pulse is slowing and he isn’t shaking, not anymore. He drops to his knees, straddling the wounded man, and hovers the knives over a soft belly. He makes eye contact._

Will flinches himself out of the imagining, whirling away from the scene with his eyes squeezed shut. He’s shuddering. The beginnings of a migraine split through his skull, his head throbbing. He places a hand over his mouth and regulates his harsh breathing, and when he opens his eyes again Hannibal is standing in the doorway. He looks even younger with Will’s coat over his shoulders, his bloodshot eyes wide and inquiring, and his shirt drying with Francis’ blood. He appears lost and confused. Will wants nothing more than to hold him, but shock keeps him at a safe distance. He doesn’t know what this means. He should have seen this in him, waiting to be unleashed. He had no idea. Now Francis Dolarhyde is dead, reduced to a mass of meat, surrounded by dark lakes of blood. In the reflection, Will can see the objects sticking out of Francis’ body, utensils and weapons speared deep into the flesh before and after death. It was done without thought, on impulse. He was skewered, organs pierced and throat slashed. He bled until his heart had no blood left to pump out.

“Bit off more than I could chew this time,” Hannibal says, entirely out of place with his submissive posture. “It seems.” He couldn’t have done this. _He couldn't._    

“There is a point where it stops being self-defense, Hannibal.” Will’s voice sounds severed from himself, strangled and cut.  

Hannibal doesn’t seem to understand.

“He deserved to die.” He says it carefully, as if afraid of Will’s reaction. It’s almost a question.

“I’m…I’m not saying he didn’t,” Will says, surprisingly gentle. “But you didn’t deserve to kill him. Not everyone will agree with—with how you did it.”

“I know,” Hannibal tells him. “That’s why I called you. I knew you would understand.”  

When Hannibal comes forward, Will takes a fast step back. Not because he’s afraid, but he needs the space. He needs to process this, before he can help him. Before he does something incredibly stupid. “Why didn’t you stop?” he asks, to fill the emptiness in the room. He doesn't actually want to know. He doesn't want it to be true. 

His question must hurt, because Hannibal hesitates, idly wringing the coat’s soft fabric with his fingers. His eyes search Will’s, but are the first to look away. That’s never happened before. “It was self-defense.”

“This was torture. Mutilation.”

“I felt threatened at the time.”

“That isn’t a valid excuse,” Will whispers. “You had every opportunity to leave after you cut his throat.”

“I wasn't making excuses. You asked.”

This can't be real.

Will struggles not to panic, to put the needs of his patient first, even under these circumstances. It’s happening, whether he’s ready to deal with it or not. It’s his job to push through unaffected. It's easier said than done. Hannibal, however, must be in denial. And why shouldn’t he be? Will never killed anyone during the time he spent as an officer, but he saw it happen. He saw the glazed look in the eyes of the living, and the dead; one thing they shared in the aftermath. He pushes himself to approach the younger man and places his hands on Hannibal’s shoulders. He’s not surprised when Hannibal simply looks at him, without wincing, unblinking. Still hazy. Realization crashes down on Will almost too late.

This will ruin his life.

But he’s alive, and that matters.

Will inhales, controlled. “You’re okay. When you’re ready, we’ll call the authorities, and explain the situation to—” He cuts himself off, watching Hannibal narrow his eyes and slowly shake his head at Will’s words, backing away from his touch. The sight makes his heart ache more. It takes all his self-control not to follow, pull him into a tight embrace. He makes himself like stone, and waits.

“I cannot do that,” Hannibal says, looking more and more like an animal backed into a corner.

“Hannibal…You don’t have a choice.”

“No,” he says stubbornly. “Do you think I’ll have any sort of life after this? I know what people will think of me, even if they sympathize. They will call me insane. I’ll never become a surgeon, or anything else. Every opportunity will be closed to me. My life as I know it will be over.”

 _Why did you do it?_ Will wants to ask, his chest tightening. _If you knew, why? Where was your impeccable self-control?_

“Life as you knew it is already over, Hannibal, you killed someone. There is no other option. This is what happens. You must face the consequences of your actions.”

Hannibal is growing incensed, but it’s contained inside himself. His back presses against the wall and his hands plaster themselves to it behind him. He’s searching for balance. “You don’t understand. Your livelihood isn’t at stake. I’ve worked, _hard_ , to get where I am in this moment. I know you think I’m entitled, spoiled," he says, his eyes burning with sudden ire. Will can feel the heat. He opens his mouth, but Hannibal isn’t finished. “But I have not told you everything. You are obviously aware of that, with how carefully you treat me in session. No…No, I won’t do it. I won’t suffer for surviving.”

“Hannibal—”

“ _No._ ” His voice is strained, reverberating off the walls and digging deep into Will’s ears, burrowing in his skull. He senses the fright in the tone, the distrust in Hannibal’s face as he watches Will closely, looking very much trapped. He’s afraid, but not threatening. Though he may be dangerous, his only intention is to protect himself from further harm. Will watches him, at a loss, keeping the stretch between and honoring the unspoken agreement not to break it, also refraining from offering words of comfort. He feels nauseous with the part of him that wants, _begs_ for him to agree to lie, sweep Hannibal away from the mess he created. Bring him home, like one of his strays. But things aren’t as simple as that. An orphan is not a dog.

Suddenly, something changes. Hannibal’s face falls, contorts as if pained or sick. “I thought you understood me.”

Will doesn’t expect for the words to hurt so much. It nearly knocks him off his feet. He takes an immediate but tentative step closer, stopping to wring his hands and breathe, unsure of how to respond. Reluctantly, he makes his decision, aching with apprehension as he approaches Hannibal. He looks into glossy, bleeding eyes, wishing this was a dream. He had dreamed of saving him before, but stupidly neglected to include dead bodies and homicide. 

“You know I do,” Will assures him, for lack of anything better to say.

“You see, don’t you?” Hannibal closes the gap. “You see what happened here and you see me. Seeing is your gift, and your curse.”

Will can feel the twitch in his mouth, the forming frown, his mild confusion. The strange relief, flowing into him like much-needed oxygen.  _You do understand me._

“I see you,” he admits, quiet, as if Francis might overhear them.   

“Help me, Will,” Hannibal whispers back. “Please.”

 

* * *

 

“I don’t feel like a man who just killed someone should feel.”

“An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal behavior.”

“But I don’t feel anything.”

“You will.”

“And if I don’t particularly want to?” 

“We’ll discuss that in therapy,” Will says, toneless.

Tracing his fingers along the steering wheel one last time, he removes the keys from the ignition. They sit together in an uncomfortable silence, his brain shutting down, too exhausted to deal with the reality of the situation, of what he’s just done. He slumps forward and rests his head against the wheel. His migraine is powerful enough to make him see stars behind closed eyes, and he is only distantly aware of the touch at the back of his neck. It’s warm and comforting, and exactly what he wants, but inappropriate. He would prefer this, relaxing into it and forgetting what happened, but his plague of a conscience continues gnawing at the edges of his thoughts and tears him away from the fantasy he would so desperately construct for himself instead.

He shrugs the hand away, leaning back into his seat and opening his eyes to look at Hannibal across from him in the passenger’s seat. Without the reassuring touch, he’s deeply regretting enforcing the distance between them, but he needs this. He needs to burst into the nearest police station, to confess everything. But this is the next best thing. Hannibal withdraws and they suffer the silence together for a few more minutes. Will can’t meet his eyes, torn between his feelings and the facts. He’s looking forward to drowning himself in whiskey to forget this ever happened, looking forward to blacking out, for a little while.

It’s not enough. He feels weighted down.

Hannibal clears his throat. “I—I don’t think I should be alone—”

“You’ll have to manage,” Will says sharply. He wants to cut off that train of thought before it even has a chance to fester inside him, make him dumb. He runs a hand over his face, digging at his eyes, willing the headache to dissipate. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, scrambling to explain himself. “I’m going to need some time, some space, to think. Our next appointment is in a few days. I’ll figure out what to do in the meantime.” He won’t, there's nothing else to do, but he doesn’t trust himself.

Not with Hannibal.

_You are chaotic._

In the darkness, he can’t make out Hannibal’s expression. “I understand,” Hannibal says, his voice as shadowed as his face. It’s impossible to discern the emotion hiding underneath. This behavior, Will is familiar with. It soothes him as much as it concerns him.

Will stares past the windshield, watching the falling snow gathering on the glass, and the distant activity on campus beyond it. He doesn’t know how Hannibal will get to his room unnoticed, not with his bloodshot eyes, but the scarf will cover the ugly bruises around his throat. In truth, Will doesn’t care. Caught, Hannibal would probably spout off a clever story about another sexual escapade gone awry. His friends would laugh about it, and it wouldn’t be too far from the truth. Will's own wounds are emotional, but unfortunately just as noticeable as if they were physical.

The sun is coming, turning the skies pink. He blinks and reaches past Hannibal to unlock the door for him. “I’ll see you,” he offers half-heartedly. “If you need me…call me. You can talk to me. But no one else.” Will reiterates this mostly for himself. Hannibal will have little trouble in not saying a single word, but Will might feel tempted to unload. He doesn’t know how he’s going to handle the upcoming monthly appointment with his own psychiatrist. He might reschedule. And continue rescheduling, after that. 

“I know.” Hannibal doesn’t move.

Unable to stop himself, Will feels compelled to ask him, “Are you okay?”

Despite everything, his instincts want him to provide and ensure the safety and comfort of his patient, of his…What is he? The fun, youthful flirtation between them is over, replaced with something different, something dangerous and smoldering and more tangible than anything else Will has ever let himself feel. He’s betrayed himself, his own nature. It might have been a long time coming, but Will wasn’t prepared for this. He briefly wonders what else slipped under his nose. Like a hound primed for the hunt, he had caught everything, picked up on each hint, before Hannibal. He knew how to help people, even when they didn’t want to be helped. But he couldn’t help himself. He still can’t. And he can't help Hannibal, either. 

Hannibal faces him but he’s blank again, impossible to read.

“It’ll be our secret.” Will doesn’t mean to say it aloud, but it leaves his mouth all the same.   

Hannibal’s eyes drift to Will’s lips, as if he’s equally surprised by the sudden reassurance, but his intentions become clear with his next move. Will isn’t fast enough to turn his cheek, instead tensing and going completely still as warm softness covers the corner of his mouth. It’s a small kiss, hardly anything at all, pressed lightly to his skin, but tantalizingly close to his lips. Barely touching. Hannibal is as delicate as Will imagined he could be. It’s innocent, and yet so inherently sexual that it hurts. He’s painfully aware of the exploratory hand resting high on his thigh, burning into him. He smells fire once more. He loves the scent, the smoking bark. He associates it with quiet stillness. With Hannibal. 

A short puff of breath blowing against his face, followed by a quiet, “Thank you, Will,” in his ear, makes him shiver. He doesn’t expect to feel so frustrated, doesn’t expect the disappointment that washes over him in enormous waves as Hannibal pulls away from him, averting his eyes, slipping out of the car and disappearing from his sight. It’s soundless. Will is left alone, tingling all over and utterly confused, close to tears.

He buries his face in his hands. He feels like a storm just ripped straight through him, leaving a path of destruction in its wake, inside his chest and breaking his bones. It takes away, some, from the ugly truth that he just helped dispose of a dead body because some manipulative, beautiful asshole batted his eyelashes at him. In the wake of all the madness, Hannibal knows exactly what he is doing, like always.

And it would be stupid to pretend otherwise.  

 


	3. Chapter 3

Over and over Will is gutted in his sleep, always when a soft, demanding mouth connects with his lips. Biting and warm. He is no stranger to these sorts of dreams, the ones with Hannibal especially, but the killing part is new. Usually, the few seconds of pure bliss are worth the searing pain that jolts him awake in the middle of his living room. He’s standing upright, barefoot and cold, while dogs swarm around him and nose at his legs until he moves. He often sleepwalks under stress, so it’s no surprise. According to his clean, but aching feet, the locks on the doors kept him inside and he spent the night instead wandering around the lower level of the house, worrying his dogs and wearing himself out. He might as well have been awake all night.  

He empties his stomach in the toilet bowl first thing, nearly all of its contents alcohol, still so strong that it makes his eyes water. He brushes his teeth. He washes it all down with another couple fingers of whiskey. The taste is sharp like a knife, too familiar, and to avoid gagging on it he forces himself to eat something light to absorb the lingering flavor. He takes a methodical shower and examines himself half-heartedly in the mirror, his reflection staring back at him with dark circles under his eyes and a somewhat deathly pallor. It’s almost impressive, the damage he’s caused himself within such a short amount of time.

Hannibal never called him.

Will plays with the thought of cancelling their appointment, but he decides to power through the morning, the afternoon, and finally the evening. His other patients, like most people, are so self-absorbed that they hardly notice his strange, drugged behavior during the week. Only Franklyn seems to catch on, and his first reaction is to take offense. Without much effort, Will convinces him he has indeed been listening, and forces himself to pay extra attention to Franklyn for the remainder of the session. When it’s over, he pulls out the bottom drawer of his desk and picks up an unopened bottle, weighing it in his hand. He sets it down on the wood and waits, tapping his fingers on the edge of an empty glass and watching the clock.

Hannibal doesn’t come.

Incensed, Will pushes himself to stand. He paces around the room, peering out of the window down to the snow-covered street, throwing both longing and ugly glances to the bottle on his desk the more anxious he becomes. Is Hannibal genuinely upset, or is he toying with him? It’s nearly impossible to know, because it’s Hannibal. He hardly seemed sorry during their last conversation. Unsettled, maybe, but not remorseful. Will retrieves his cell phone to check for messages, for missed calls, but he finds nothing. His screen is as blank as it’s been for the last several days. Hannibal would normally find this behavior rude, so where is he?

After an hour of absolutely nothing, Will abandons the bottle and the empty glass, pulling on his coat to leave. It’s late. The sun is setting and the streets will soon freeze over, but it’s too painful to wait another day. He refuses to spend another night drinking and silently panicking, letting the nervous energy build and build, waiting for it to break like a fever. He’s debating on whether he should first check Murasaki’s house or Johns Hopkins University, when he collides against another warm body directly outside his office door, in the waiting room.

His heart soars with relief, only to drop back into the pit of his stomach. This is a face he hasn’t seen before. It’s much less appealing than what he expected to see, eyes puffy from weeping and a semi-permanent frown fixed into its features, full of anxiety for all its youth.  

Before he can hide his disappointment and murmur an apology, the well-dressed man in front of him excitedly claps his hands together once, and blurts out, “Hello, Doctor Will Graham?”

Putting on an air of professionalism and ignoring the impatient stuttering of his heart, Will sidesteps and gestures inside his office.

“What can I do for you?” he asks, shocked to hear himself sound so blunt. He shoves his hands inside his pockets, cupping his phone and anticipating any hint of vibration.   

The young man enters the room with a wounded sort of pride, his head held high but the rest of his body not quite falling in line with the demeanor he wants so badly to project. He takes in his surroundings, judging them harshly, before he turns on his heel to face Will. His courage dissipates. “I was hoping to meet someone here,” he confesses, eyes dropping to the carpet. He takes a moment to frown at the color. “One of your patients. I’m worried about him. I’ve been having a hard time getting in touch and I thought he might…But I suppose I must have missed him.”

Will shifts his stance with a feeling of dread. “May I ask who you were looking for?” _This is the last thing I need right now. Please, don’t be…_

“…Hannibal Lecter,” the man says carefully.

_Frederick._

“You must be Frederick Chilton,” Will decides, masking his instantaneous dislike with surprise. “You are his partner, as I understand it. I’m afraid I don’t have Hannibal’s permission to discuss his therapy with you, Mr. Chilton.”

Frederick’s eyes widen, then narrow. “Of course he’s mentioned me. Only the _worst_ , I’m sure. He does have a flair for the dramatic. I hope you don’t have too many preconceived notions about me.”

“You did show up to his psychiatrist’s office,” Will points out, happy to do so. He tells himself his hostility is coming from Frederick’s natural unpleasantness. Definitely not jealousy. “This is meant to be a safe haven for my patients.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Frederick says, taking a step back, deeper into the room. “I found the address easily, and of course he’s told me who _you_ are.” Admitting this, Frederick seems just as sour as Will. He continues, “It’s not like I followed him. Was he here, or not?”

“He has a right to privacy, so I need to ask if this is an emergency. Otherwise I would prefer not to answer.”

Frederick drops his indifference, suddenly imploring. “Please, Doctor Graham, it’s a fair possibility it might be. I only want to know if he was here. If he wasn’t, I have a favor to ask of you. He’s been acting strange, elusive, and now he won’t answer his phone or his e-mail at all, and the other trainees at his school claim they haven’t seen him. That worries me. I’m sure you’re aware that we have our… _disagreements_ , but he tends to not drop off the face of the earth. I’ve checked everywhere,” he says, holding up one finger to indicate that he isn’t finished yet, despite Will not threatening to interrupt him. “He won’t answer his door. I’ve asked the resident assistants to let me inside his room, to make sure he’s _alive_ , but I…I’ve possibly overreacted before, and now—”

“Now they don’t trust your judgement. You were hoping the word of his psychiatrist might convince them,” Will finishes for him, watching Frederick nod enthusiastically.

He has no reason to object. It might be par for the course to ignore Frederick, sometimes for days on end, but Hannibal wouldn’t skip class. He wouldn’t let the injuries stop him, not when he could spin a convincing tale faster than someone could think to ask.

Unless he’s feeling remorseful, which is doubtful. Or self-destructive, which is entirely possible.

Without offering an explanation, Will finally summons the courage to dial the number on his phone, bringing it to his ear. It goes straight to voicemail, the beeping tone stirring something uncomfortable in his belly. He recognizes it as fear. He turns to Frederick.

“Lead the way,” he says after a moment, because technically he shouldn’t already know. As tempting as it is to upset Frederick, Will doesn't have the time. 

 

* * *

 

“I don’t think this is necessary,” the resident assistant says, talking neatly around the wad of gum in her mouth as she returns with the master key and leads them toward the elevator. “It’s Hannibal,” she adds, as if this should make things painfully obvious. “I mean…you know.”  

“What would _you_ know about him?” Frederick snarls, oblivious to the private, smug smirk that spreads across the tiny girl’s face as she presses the button to close the doors. Her long hair is dyed an array of wild colors and she’s dressed in black from head to toe. It’s strange that she might know Hannibal personally. And not so strange. Of course Hannibal empathizes with eccentrics, being an eccentric.  

“Better safe than sorry,” Will tells her in a soft tone, determined not to appear as desperate as his much younger companion.

Lightheaded with nervous tension and still sick from his third consecutive hangover, he’s sweating under his suit and hoping that it isn’t too noticeable. It probably smells like alcohol, which would explain the suspicious look the girl is giving him now that they are stuck in an enclosed space together. _I’m technically not at work_ , he wants to protest. Once the elevator doors open he makes the conscious decision to walk slowly, willing his heart to be still, following the assistant and watching Frederick trip over himself to be the first down the hall.  

“Well, last chance to change your minds, fellas,” the girl says, the warning in her voice giving Will pause, but Frederick pushes past him and snatches the key from the assistant’s hands. He turns the lock himself. “Who the hell do you even think you are—” Frederick grunts at her, kicking the door open to free the key, and it slams hard against the wall. The key hits the floor. It’s completely dark inside. Grumbling, Frederick feels along the frame and reaches out to find a light switch, flicking it on when he does. It’s almost comical; the sharp inhale and the widening of his eyes, the choking noise that slips out of him.   

Thinking the worst, Will nearly topples him over in an effort to look inside.

In the front room, the furniture has been hastily pushed together to form a makeshift bed containing bodies entwined and half-hidden under a pile of bed sheets. It’s as though they couldn’t wait long enough to make it to the bedroom. Will’s eyes dart quickly over their surroundings, absorbing the empty wine bottles left out on the table, in the floor. He’s sure Frederick opened the door to the wrong apartment. He doesn’t recognize the young man or the girl pressed so tightly against each other. They stir and scrunch up their faces from the disturbance, looking as pained as he felt this morning. He almost apologizes, until he recognizes a third figure sandwiched between those two, with bedhead hair sticking out in all directions and an exhausted expression, but a familiar face.

While Will is too bewildered to say anything once their eyes meet, Hannibal’s first flashing with confusion, and then triumph, Frederick has no trouble opening his mouth.

“ _You…!_ ” Frederick barks, raking his hands through his hair. He looks like he might actually tear it out. “That’s it, Hannibal! I can’t do this anymore! You’re so… _selfish!_ Fuck you!” he says, searching wildly for something to throw, and he settles for an empty wine bottle. It misses by a mile, shattering somewhere in the kitchen beyond. The girl in the bed squeaks at the sound, curling in on herself. When the resident assistant opens her mouth to object, Frederick whirls on her. “Fuck you, whoever the fuck _you_ are! Fuck all of you!”

“Frederick, please,” the man spooning Hannibal growls, eyes still closed, hugging his prize closer despite Hannibal's dissatisfied frown. 

“Fuck off, Anthony!”

Will decides he should probably say something, momentarily setting aside his own astonishment. “Frederick—”

“Good luck fixing him!” Frederick yells in his face, shoving him aside. “Because I’m done trying! He’s a true sociopath! Diagnose that, why don’t you?” He looks over his shoulder, narrowing in on his boyfriend. “What is _wrong_ with you?” he asks him, his voice suddenly low, but dripping with malice. And hurt. With that, he makes his exit, but he doesn’t get away fast enough for his sobbing to go unheard. Will does feel bad for him, in a way that fills him with secondhand embarrassment. He makes a mental reminder to plead with Hannibal to just dump him, for Frederick’s sake. Keeping him around is a cruelty. 

“Frederick,” Hannibal says, but he waits until Frederick is out of earshot, and it doesn’t sound like he cares.  

Will exchanges a look with the resident assistant, furrowing his brow at her amused smile. She shrugs her shoulders and bends to retrieve the key off the floor, leaving without offering a single word. This was probably her entertainment for the night, if not the entire week.

“Out,” Will tells the other two. He uses his best police officer voice, drawing on the memory of his old boss. A flicker of authority must shine through, because they obey his request, though grudgingly. Hannibal makes no move to dress himself, not even offering them a goodbye, instead pulling the blanket over his head like a child who has decided he no longer wishes to participate.

Will averts his eyes, giving them the illusion of privacy while they remove themselves from the safety of the covers. He pretends not to hear the awkward clink of belts and ruffling fabric, the sound of zippers being yanked up. He pointedly ignores the mischievous wink the young man throws at him on his way out, and the murderous look the girl shoots at him in comparison. They look like relatively normal students.

Will shuts the door behind them, feeling much too old.

He doesn’t allow himself time to reflect, briskly approaching Hannibal’s veiled form. Will pries at the corner of the blanket, tugging it down, just past his head. He ignores the curious look Hannibal gives him, resting his hand against Hannibal’s cheek and brushing back his hair, noting how it refuses to lie flat. He’s warm, but not feverish. Will inspects his eyes, the broken blood vessels, determined for this examination to seem clinical in nature. _It is_ , he reminds himself. He avoids staring too long at the colorful bruises still wrapped around Hannibal’s throat. He doesn't let himself think about pulling the blanket off, looking at the rest of him. He doesn’t like that the barrier between them is thinner than it has ever been. Hannibal is smiling the lazy smile of a cat who is well-pleased with himself, reaching out to grasp Will’s wrist. His thumb brushes over heated skin. Too late, Will realizes Hannibal just took his pulse.

“Plenty of room for one more,” Hannibal teases him, stretching languidly, certainly aware of how inviting the suggestion must be.

“Or two,” Will adds for him wryly. He shakes his head, removing his hand as he straightens to his full height. “That was careless, Hannibal. You knew ignoring Frederick would agitate him. Did you hope he would come to me?”

“Frederick is an unfortunate side effect. But I had hoped you would come to me,” Hannibal says without an ounce of shame. His purring voice sends a shiver down Will’s spine. He’s heard it a hundred times before in session, but it has a very different effect outside of his office.

_You wanted to give me a glimpse of what you could offer._

He missed the show, thanks to Frederick’s time-consuming visit in his office. He’s incredibly relieved that the plan failed. Didn't it? “Do you think this is a game?” he asks, unable to keep the soreness out of his voice.

“Would you like to play?”

Will bends and inclines his head, taking a courageous whiff of his breath, but he doesn’t detect alcohol or anything else unpleasant, thankfully.

Hannibal blinks at him, momentarily stunned. Or disgusted. “May I ask what that was for?”

“Determining whether you’re intoxicated or simply lost your mind,” Will retorts.

Hannibal wrinkles his nose, sniffing slightly. “Have _you_ been drinking, Doctor?”

“You reek of sex,” Will counters, unable to resist twitching his lip back at him. His building frustration is boiling over, now that he knows Hannibal is not in danger, but actively wasting his time instead. He makes a split-second decision. “Go shower. Cold water. You’re coming with me. Please don’t look so excited about it,” Will snorts at the presumptuous twinkle in Hannibal’s eyes.  

He’s caught off guard when Hannibal immediately begins removing himself from those frighteningly thin sheets, hardly giving him time to turn around. His stomach does flips. Hannibal is slow in untangling himself then, clearly curious to see if he can tempt Will to look at him. Will raises his eyes to the ceiling, staring hard at nothing. He imagines Hannibal’s body enough in his sleep. He doesn’t need to torture himself awake.

“We need to talk,” Will says, shielding his vision with his hand because he doesn’t trust Hannibal not to walk directly into his peripheral.  

“I look forward to our conversation,” Hannibal says pleasantly. 

Will listens to the pad of bare feet against the floor, only dropping his arm when he hears the bathroom door shut. He never hears the reassuring click. It remains unlocked, an open invitation.

 

* * *

 

He waits outside in the car, simmering in his frustration, the pointed edges of his teeth breaking through the flesh of his lips and drawing blood while he runs his hand over the wheel and thinks of the last time they were together. He can easily imagine a different version, one with bones grinding to dust and skin against skin, no more childish kisses on the cheek, half on the lips. Why would Hannibal feign such innocence if he’s equally happy to present himself like this?

Will closes his eyes to brace himself when the passenger’s side door opens and a mouth-watering smell wafts over. The usual masculine, smoky scent is missing, replaced with something almost flowery. Will’s associations are mixing, confusing, and he knows this is on purpose. He’s grateful for the falling darkness, his face flushing from the steam radiating from Hannibal under his clothes. To Hannibal’s credit, he didn’t make him wait long, and he’s fully dressed. His hair is tame, which is an unexpected disappointment.

_‘Do you think this is a game?’_

_‘Would you like to play?’_

“I thought I told you to take a cold shower,” Will scolds while he pulls out of the parking lot.

“I’m rather cold already, if that makes you feel better. Where are we going?”

The alluring sound of his voice, thickly accented and laced with exhaustion from earlier physical exertion, from sex, only serves to antagonize Will more. The visual is provoking, infuriating for reasons he can't explain.

Will suddenly wants to kiss him, among other things.

“What is wrong with you?” He decides to use Frederick’s words, though they aren’t as hostile coming from him.

Hannibal is taken aback all the same.

“Pardon?”

“You just survived an assault. Before you could even process what happened, or what you…we did, you decided to put yourself at risk all over again. And you used my concern for you to lure me here for your own entertainment. I’m reconsidering my original claim that you don’t suffer from an addiction. I have half a mind to compare notes with your previous psychiatrist, see if anything sounds familiar.”

But he probably won’t, because he isn’t currently on good terms with Alana Bloom, not since she broke up with him. 

Hannibal is looking over at him, wordlessly asking for the courtesy of eye contact. Will denies him. He keeps his eyes on the road and the outer rim of his glasses. “You find all of this amusing,” he adds needlessly, growing uncomfortable with Hannibal’s silence.  

“Are you giving consideration to what Frederick suggested of me?”

Whatever Will expected, it wasn’t that. “I doubt you are a sociopath—but you are surprisingly rude.”

“You don’t know what I am,” Hannibal says. He states it as fact.

Will surmises that Hannibal has been reading Will’s notes about him in session upside-down. The thought isn’t terribly shocking, though he does suddenly suffer a wave of self-consciousness. He thinks about the unprofessional, poorly drawn doodles of dogs he has a habit of sketching during the lulls in conversation.

“Surely you don’t expect to successfully fuck yourself out of a depression,” he says, still worrying about the sketches.

“I’m not depressed, Will,” Hannibal says earnestly. “But I think you might be.”

Will says nothing.  _Maybe you should just get laid_  hangs heavy in the air above his head, but Hannibal would word it more delicately. He doesn't say it at all, thankfully.

“This no longer feels like therapy,” Hannibal admits after a while.

Will would love to go back to the harmless flirting, the banal but oddly hypnotizing sessions in which they both danced around their undeniable mutual attraction and prodded at the boundaries of doctor and patient. It was arguably unsustainable, but it felt good at the time. He gives Hannibal a genuine but sad laugh.

“It stopped being therapy when we buried a man in the snow,” he says, feeling no better for finally admitting it aloud.

“One could argue that it was therapeutic for me,” Hannibal says thoughtfully. 

If it was anyone other than Hannibal, Will would have been horrified. Now he just comes to a slow stop at the red light, casually considering it.

He can’t blame Hannibal for being Hannibal, but he _can_ blame himself for being so weak as to betray his own nature. Or perhaps this was in his nature to begin with. He doesn’t know anymore. His body aches, yearning for the drink it has accustomed itself to at this hour. The bottle is still waiting for him in his office. He decides he might as well enjoy a glass or two. He’s going to need it, telling by the direction the conversation has taken.

“Where are we going?” Hannibal asks again.

Will stares straight ahead, listening to the static on the radio, gently tapping the gas when the light turns green. “You missed our appointment.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "He can’t blame Hannibal for being Hannibal" yES YOU CAN WILL


	4. Chapter 4

Will swallows the burn, coughing a little. He can feel it slide down his throat and reach his belly, where he immediately wants to gag and spit it back out along with his stomach lining. His mouth lingers on the slick coolness of the glass, just for a while, and then he sets it down empty on the desk. He rubs at his aching eyes, grateful for the dim lighting of his office, just the single lamp on his desk, and the low noise outside. No traffic at this time of night, just the occasional whirring of a car pushing through slush and gliding briefly on ice. He seats himself in the chair across from Hannibal, exhaling as he crosses his legs and unconsciously mimics the boy’s composure. There is no sound save for the low hum of the heat running and filling the room with warmth as the minutes pass. Will has spent very few nights in his office, and never has he seen a patient after dark. This evening feels more surreal than it had just a few hours ago.

Hannibal watches him silently. His eyes appear deep brown, almost black. It’s difficult to pick apart his current expression.

“Why don’t we start with you telling me how you feel about Francis,” Will says.

“I don’t regret my actions, if that’s what you’re after.”

Will’s hand moves instinctively to take notes, but the book is gone. He couldn’t write about this conversation if he wanted to. If things go his way, none of it will ever see the light of day.

“Tell me why you don’t?” he prompts instead.

“Francis does not deserve pity, least of all from me.”

“Let’s forget about Francis then. How do you feel knowing you’ve taken a human life?”

“One not worth living?”

“You’re angry.”

“I feel…indifferent toward him,” Hannibal says cooly. “His actions were distasteful and caused his demise. Nothing can be done about it now.”

He looks so calm, his eyes half-lidded again, as though he might close them and rest. It isn’t boredom, just relaxation. Will feels his own body falling, sinking further into the leather as the alcohol settles in his limbs and fills them with sand. He feels a heavy pressure on his chest. Soon, his breath will turn shallow. He wonders if opening the bottle had been a mistake. He doesn’t want to get too comfortable. But he hasn’t felt so at ease in _days_ and this is close to being nice.

“You believe he deserved it. You don’t feel sorry for killing him.” Will runs his tongue over his lips, wincing at the taste leftover. He’s sick of it. He needs to start drinking something else. “I’m asking you, would it feel differently for you if it had been someone else?”

Hannibal hesitates. His face twitches with sudden uncertainty. It’s unlike him. “Will?”

Will blinks. “Yes?”

“Killing Francis felt righteous.”

He understands, but the words still make him feel uneasy despite the strange, intense heat climbing in his face and everywhere else. “I can see why it might,” he offers.

Hannibal shifts in what might be discomfort. “I’ve been having dreams.”

“Nightmares?”

“No. Good dreams.”

“What happens in these dreams?”

“I’m killing.”

Will inclines his head, waiting for him to continue.

“I like it.”

His breath catches.

Why this? Why him? Why couldn’t it have been anyone else under his care, and not Hannibal?

When his world stops spinning, Will stands. The room wobbles all over again, but he focuses on keeping his balance. He pours himself another glass, filling it generously. He puts a fair amount of space between them, retreating into the more shadowed area of the room. Stopping at the window, he spends a while watching the falling snow through thin curtains. He clears his throat after he’s swallowed all the contents of his glass. He still sounds hoarse when he speaks. And he blames it on the warm liquid swishing around in his stomach.

“Who?”

“People I see on the street every day, others I imagine I’ve seen before. Francis. I’m never afraid.”

“Do you get sexual gratification from killing, in these dreams?”

“No, Will.”

“Did you from Francis?” Will tests.

“It wasn’t like that,” Hannibal says, deadpan. His voice holds no disgust, not even judgment. It might be honest but it’s unsettling.

“You’re sure?”

“I would know, I think.” Hannibal’s response is slow, sarcastic. Will frowns at it.

“Do you want to do it again?”

“No.”

For the first time, Will _knows_ he’s caught him in a lie.

He turns. Hannibal is preoccupied with examining a loose thread in his sweater, oblivious to the blooming wrathful expression on Will’s face.

He leaves the refreshing, cold area by the window, walking over to his patient and reaching out with his free hand. Hannibal looks up at him, intrigued, and Will immediately curls his fingers around the fading bruises marring Hannibal’s throat. His touch is soft, hardly applying any pressure, but his arm is shaking with rage. When he guides Hannibal out of his seat, to his feet, his palm remains pressed close against the skin. He has the sudden urge to squeeze, but he refrains. Hannibal stares. His interest turns into something else, darkening.

He’s so close that Will can taste his breath.

Will brushes his thumb over an artery. Hannibal raises his hand and grasps Will’s wrist, not outright threatening, but the implication is there. If Will starts to crush him, Hannibal will break his arm.

Will speaks through teeth clenched so hard that his jaw aches. “Don’t lie to me.”

Hannibal opens his mouth. Will interrupts, “ _Do not lie to me._ I’ll know if you do. Do you understand? Don’t lie to me again, Hannibal.”

“I understand.”

“You aren’t going to kill anyone,” Will tells him. “Tell me. If you feel any of these urges, you will come to me first.”

“I promise,” Hannibal assures him. For all the world, he looks sincere.

Will lingers for a moment longer. Then, visibly shrinking, feeling his squared shoulders fall in humiliation, he releases the boy in front of him. His face flushes with shame. He recognizes the smoldering look in Hannibal’s eyes as arousal, not fear. Will isn’t comfortable with it. He passes him, intent on filling his glass for a third time. He pauses as the rim touches his lips. Breathing deeply, he turns on his heel and offers it to Hannibal instead. It’s a shitty apology, but Hannibal takes it. Will shivers as their fingers brush, feeling cold when Hannibal pulls away.

He seats himself on the chaise lounge for a change and hangs his head between his knees, lacing his fingers behind his neck. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Hannibal standing where Will left him, occasionally drinking from the glass. His eyes are wandering, but they keep coming back to Will, scanning him over and trying to figure him out. Perhaps Hannibal is upset about the nature of Will’s advance, but Will doubts it. He can practically taste the oozing desire. None of it is his own, it can’t be. He feels something tickle his cheek and he wipes at his face, hand coming back wet. He must be drunk.  _Fucking ridiculous._  

Hannibal approaches him.

“Don’t,” Will warns him. “I want to be left alone.”

He hides his face, chewing hard on the inside of his mouth when the warmth of another body presses at his side, shoulder to shoulder. Without looking, he reaches for the glass in Hannibal’s hand. Hannibal moves it out of reach, setting it on the floor. He doesn’t say a word about it. It’s surprisingly responsible. Will scoffs, tilting his head back to glare at the ceiling. But he’s kind of proud, too, until he realizes the glass was empty already.

“Neither of us will be going home at this rate,” Will says, thinking of his dogs.

“I don’t mind.”

Will flinches. Why did he have to say it like that, softly?

Hannibal is looking at him, Will knows. He can feel it burning his face, the fire and smoke clouding his thoughts. He freezes at the gentle weight that pushes, questioning, on his shoulder. It almost knocks him off balance, and he feels like he’s moving despite being perfectly still. He focuses on breathing. It sounds labored.

“I don’t know what to do,” Will confesses.

“We can stop talking about it.”

_I came here specifically to talk about it._

“We have to talk about it. Sometime. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not. _Dealing._ With what happened.”

“Must we discuss it now?”

“Hannibal,” Will chastises, feeling his tongue stumble around the name, dragging it across gravel. He abandons his resolve, mostly forgetting it, and looks over to find Hannibal smiling at him. Will scowls.

“You have an accent,” Hannibal observes.

“’Scuse me?”

“Faint. But it’s there.”

“You too,” Will says lamely, feeling defensive. “But yours is pretty bad. _Thick._ Sorry, I meant to say thick.”

Hannibal ignores him. “You lived in Louisiana, didn’t you?”

“Please don’t tell me you were stalking me too.”

“If you are referring to our… _chance_ meetings…”

Will shakes his head. “Frederick,” he explains, and Hannibal makes a sympathetic noise. “Speaking of Frederick, is he jealous of me?” Will asks, recalling Frederick’s earlier behavior. He seemed especially resentful of the fact that Hannibal, apparently, speaks about Will outside of therapy. Only good things, judging by Frederick’s irritability.

“Are you jealous of him?”

“You’re so fucking predictable,” Will snorts.

Hannibal’s smile turns charmingly crooked, his teeth glinting just a little. His eyes are round. He looks his age, and he looks happy. It’s the most genuine thing Will has ever seen out of him, and he can’t stop staring. He’s left breathless. Everything in the room seems brighter and richer but impossible to bring into focus, except Hannibal. Everything else becomes irrelevant.

“I liked that,” Will says.

“What?”

“You smiled, and you meant it. It was lovely.”

“Lovely,” Hannibal repeats. He closes his mouth, his eyes flitting down while he considers it. When their eyes meet again, something inside roots Will to the spot. “Will. May I kiss you?”

 _Yes_ , Will wants to scream, conjuring the memory of lips against his cheek, so close to his mouth. “No,” he says, and kisses him anyway.

Hannibal tastes like whiskey, but sweet fruit is what sticks to Will’s tongue and floods his senses. His touch is so delicate that it feels like feathers, it’s almost not even a kiss, so Will fixes it by placing his hand on the back of Hannibal’s neck and brings him in. That innocent, kittenish behavior is unnecessary, even if it’s enticing. Very enticing. Will crushes their mouths together, roughly because he wants to taste more, feel more. He regrets it at once because Hannibal responds with so much enthusiasm that it might suffocate them both. Will can’t see anything but black dots, so he shuts his eyes. He’s even more unbalanced, chasing Hannibal to keep himself upright. Stirring low in his belly is something desperately hungry and full of electricity, jolting at each passing second they spend locked together.

When the kiss breaks, Will is left panting.

“I taste blood,” Hannibal says. “Don’t bite yourself, Will.”

Will wants to ask what the hell kind of a statement is that, after he just risked his entire career for a kiss, but Hannibal kisses him again and this time his tongue invades Will’s mouth and runs over the sore wounds Will made minutes ago with his teeth. His stomach muscles seize and he makes a noise somewhere between a whine and a groan. Hannibal must be lapping at the blood. Instead of being disgusted Will thinks he might actually black out from pleasure.

His fingers drift to Hannibal’s cheek and lower, caressing his bruised neck and apologizing for earlier, for even daring to suggest he might do anything other than touch. Hannibal stops kissing him, leaning close to press his face against Will’s throat. He hears the quiet sniff, his scent being committed to memory, and then he feels teeth scraping his skin. Will inhales sharply.

“Hannibal, I can’t.” But he would like to, very much.

“You _can_ do whatever you like, Will. But are you _willing?_ ”  

“Christ, does it matter?” Will asks, squeezing his eyes shut from the wonderful heat on his neck. “We can’t.”

“Shall I terminate our patient-psychiatrist relationship? I find myself dissatisfied with your service. Is that better? You abandoned your professionalism with me several nights ago, Will. Longer than that, if we’re being completely honest with one another. Let's stop pretending.”  

He isn’t physically or mentally prepared for the weight that drops into his lap as Hannibal climbs over him, purposefully caging the outside of Will’s thighs with the inside of his. He’s heated, more so because of the buzzing synthetic warmth in both their blood. Will holds his breath, chest tight. Hannibal stares at him, head tilted, his mouth open just slightly as he breathes, the whisper of his breath caressing Will’s face. His eyes are demanding, though the rest of him is at a standstill. “Would you touch me?”

“Where?” Will asks, transfixed.

Because ' _no'_ is impossible. There’s no more room for uncertainty, not with their bodies melting together to the point that each throbbing beat of his heart feels shared with Hannibal's.

“Surprise me.” Hannibal takes Will’s hands in his. The act seems to distract him, his eyes lowering to Will’s palms and memorizing the callouses, the lines.  

Will has tunnel vision. He’s overwhelmed, between his itching skin and his aching lungs, feeling like he can’t get enough air. He thought about this for months. For the better part of an entire year. Now he can’t decide. Where should he start? _I don’t know._

Will watches his hand move of its own accord, tracing the edges of the sweater and digging underneath to splay his fingers across Hannibal’s soft stomach. He likes how the muscles tense and draw inward, betraying Hannibal’s delight. He brushes over the scattered hair he finds, delighting in the exhale that presses against his fingers. He licks his lips, lifting his head to cover Hannibal’s mouth with his own, building his courage.

“Can I…” he whispers.

“Please, yes.”

Will busies himself with unbuckling Hannibal’s belt, dipping his head against his chest to look down. He watches his own fingers pushing the first barrier out of the way. He cups Hannibal through his remaining clothes, feeling him harden. Breath is running hot on his neck, fast and uneven from his touch. Focusing on his task, he frees Hannibal and takes him in his hand, stroking him to full attention. It’s thick in his grasp, unfamiliar and exciting. He can’t help but stare, the sight making him equally interested, and he finally tears his eyes away to kiss Hannibal again. This time, it’s much less controlled.

This is where his patients lie for therapy, with tears welling in their eyes and secrets pouring out of their mouths. It’s vulgar, his drugged mind tries to tell him. His own erection is pressing against the warm inside of Hannibal’s thigh, straining through the fabric. He can’t imagine how it might feel bare. And then he can. Will thrusts his hips on instinct alone, driving up against Hannibal’s spread leg, savoring the low moan that erupts from the boy in his lap. He frantically makes room for the sweet sound in the overstuffed corners of his mind, throwing out the memories he doesn’t need. He prefers this one.

“Christ,” Will huffs, against an engaging mouth. He needs to make up for lost time, before he comes to his senses and changes his mind. He runs his free hand over the pleasant swell of Hannibal’s backside, memorizing it, investigating its softness.  

“It’s been a long time for you,” Hannibal observes, his voice husky and interrupted with each hitch in his breath. “Since you've touched someone. Why?”  

Will doesn’t like that he knows, dislikes that he would even bother to voice his suspicions and expect to carry on a conversation about it. Will doesn’t want to think about his loneliness, how it started long before Alana Bloom and the brief escape that she offered him. Loving people was always hard. He couldn’t keep the fire of the connection between himself and his partner, could only mimic what was offered to him, something unfairly created by his disorder. And now he’s feeling something that belongs to him alone. Perhaps it’s the drink making him loose, or the attraction he feels is just that strong. Hannibal’s interest is in the forefront of his mind, but it doesn’t dictate what he feels in kind. It doesn’t drown out his own desires. This is his. When Hannibal first stepped into his office and smiled at him and made it a point to pursue him, Will knew. It made him obsessed, filled his mind with questionable dreams and urges, but he was reluctant to act.

He acts now, tugging gently on Hannibal’s cock and relishing in the sound of surprise, the way his hips grind down against Will’s and he thrusts into Will’s tightening fist.  

“Will…”

His name sounds like dripping honey.

Will rolls them over and pins Hannibal to the chaise lounge with his full weight, fitting himself between his thighs. He’s wanted _this_ for a long time. Quickly, he fumbles with his pants and frees himself, gripping them together and stroking them with renewed energy, rocking his hips. He’s stepping over the chalk line he once drew for himself, watching it wash away in the rain. He feels toned legs tighten around his waist, pulling him closer, forcing him to lie almost flat.

He buries his face in Hannibal’s throat, kissing the skin, but distraction makes him forget what he was intending. He’s doing what he can to hold back most of the grunting and the words that attempt to barge past his lips, but Hannibal isn’t worried about being quiet. He’s right not to; there’s no point, they are alone. But it feels less invasive, less intimate if Will hushes himself. His hips stutter at the sudden high-pitched noise, the desperate whimpering beneath him. He loses every ounce of resolve, tingling all over.

“God, Hannibal,” he chokes. “Stop.” Don't stop. “Don’t give me that kitten bullshit. Give me _you._ Show me again.”

Hannibal pushes against him roughly, spine arching, nearly knocking Will back. His eyes burn, coal-black with an increasingly thin outer ring of bright red. He looks caught somewhere between animosity and wild hunger, lip curled to reveal sharp teeth that would have no trouble in ripping right through the flesh of Will’s throat. He looks like he might want to.

He looks like a killer.

Will shudders and comes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good job buddy


	5. Chapter 5

The memory of that night in his office is like a dream. It’s foggy and difficult to wade through whenever he thinks about it, for several reasons. First and foremost, he was very drunk. He sincerely wishes he hadn’t been. Not because he regrets what happened, but because he severely misses the pulsating shock of the touches he can’t remember, the simple reality of them. Everything feels distant and unreachable, tucked away in the deepest parts of his brain where he can’t dig them out, not even if he pried himself apart. He wants to feel it again. In his sleep, as always, he does. It’s cruel. And it’s not enough. It’s wrong, it’s sick, and _it’s not nearly enough._

He's never realized just how touch-starved he is.

He stares down at the notebook spread across his lap, his vision blurred from lack of focus. He brushes his thumb over the smooth edge of the pen in his hand, mesmerized by the slippery texture, enough that when he accidentally drops the pen the droning voice of his patient and his killer headache suddenly hit him at full force. He winces visibly, overloaded.

“Doctor Graham, are you feeling all right?”

Will clears his throat and says that he’s fine, that it must be the weather, and asks for them to continue. He listens and he writes down what he should, but he isn’t emotionally invested. He still cares, but it’s removed. He blames it on his sobriety, on his inability to catch up because he has been lagging behind for almost two weeks. His decision to quit drinking was hardly a decision, just something that happened. Of course it wasn’t because of last time…It had _nothing_ to do with his actions that night, he tells himself. It’s coincidental. It’s not because he wants to remember the next time, if there is a next time. No, there definitely won’t be a next time.

At home, he pours himself a glass of whiskey and dumps it down the drain. The ghost of the action satisfies him, and he’s free to cook dinner. His dogs file in and out of the house with the door propped open, the cold breeze filtering in and keeping him cool while the stove and the oven radiate heat. He smiles at the familiar click of claws against the floor and shakes his head at the melting snow being trekked inside, but he’s mostly unaffected. As long as he doesn’t forget and slip on it, it’ll dry on its own. Winston noses at his leg politely, only the gentlest of nudges, so Will slips him a piece of cooked meat and murmurs for him to not tell anyone. He rubs him behind the ears and sends him on his way, leaning back against the counter to close his eyes and inhale the scent of various spices floating around the room. It’s been a while since he cooked a full meal for himself, though he always makes the dog food from scratch.

His silenced cell phone lights up from across the room. He considers ignoring it, but he doesn’t get many texts, so he’s curious.

His smile, which he didn’t realize he still had, dissipates.

**_Hannibal Lecter_ **

Will opens the text, surprised to find a photo.

It’s a picture of a black and white puppy with semi-erect ears and sparse freckles, and a very pink tongue. It looks like it recently had a bath. It’s gnawing on a hand, little white teeth trying their best to puncture skin, but failing. It has one dark brown eye and the other is an ice cold blue, both peering up innocently at the person taking the picture. Attached to the image are the words: _Do you have room for him?_

Without considering the consequences, Will answers: _Always._ And provides his home address.

Not wanting to worry himself sick with the reckless decision, he busies himself with tripping over the dogs and the piles of dirty clothes, bending to pick up whatever he can before either stuffing it away in his dressers or kicking it under the bed, because he realizes his house is a complete mess _only_ after he’s invited the prissiest human being in existence into it. He finishes cooking in nervous silence, debating on whether he should set two places at the wobbly table when he hears gravel crunching in the driveway and blinding new headlights shine through his windows. His dogs go wild, completely unused to having visitors this late in the evening, pawing at him to be let outside. Will manages to crack the front door and slips through it alone, wandering out onto the porch to stare dumbly at the Bentley, in _his_ driveway, before he finally gathers his wits and makes his way across the yard.

Hannibal seems flushed from the heat inside the vehicle, his cheeks colored pink, and the setting sun casts his slightly windswept hair and the rest of his form in a halo of gold. The blood vessels in his eyes are fully healed, and a cashmere scarf is wrapped tight around his neck, hiding the state of the bruises. He looks gorgeous. The mere sight of him steals the air from Will’s lungs, punches him in the gut, but the writhing puppy in Hannibal’s arms with its gangling limbs and big feet makes the moment even sweeter. Will forces himself to move, to close the distance and reach for the dog instead of the boy. He directs his attention away from the amber color of Hannibal’s eyes, a trick of the light, focusing instead on the wriggling puppy. He murmurs hello, silently cursing his voice for immediately falling into that grossly adoring tone, running his fingers through silky fur and keeping an eye out as the dog tries to playfully bite at his hand. The puppy’s tail waves like an ecstatic white flag. Hannibal jerks his head out of reach to avoid being bitten on the ear, and small but impressive jaws click closed on thin air.

“He’s been like this all day,” Hannibal says finally. It’s not a complaint. His smile is indulgent.

It’s the first words exchanged since that night and Will can’t think of anything better to say than, “It’s cold, let’s go inside.”

Not wanting to introduce them all at once, he separates the more energetic dogs from the laid-back ones, the dogs that hopefully won’t immediately overwhelm the puppy (or Hannibal). When he returns to the front room, Hannibal is crouching and offering his hand to the dogs left behind. He looks somewhat confused, like he’s never had a dog come up to him and insist on sniffing his palm before. His previously blank face twists into a grimace when the terrier Buster flicks his tongue out and licks him sloppily, but he doesn’t pull away. He’s still holding onto the wiggling puppy, who can’t seem to decide if he wants to be released or protected from the others. Will stops walking and leans against the wall, crossing his arms while he tries desperately to hold in the fond smile that threatens to escape.

“Did you ever have a dog?” He can’t imagine a childhood without one.

Hannibal shakes his head, then halts abruptly, as though remembering something. “Working, I think.”

“Border Collies are working dogs,” Will says, joining him on the floor. He gets down on his knees and reaches for the black and white puppy. Hannibal is obviously reluctant to let go, eyeing the other dogs with suspicion, but he eventually allows it.

“I’m sure I can find something for him to do,” Will adds, setting the puppy on the floor and watching as his dogs gather around. When their curious noses get nipped, most pull their heads away and disperse. A few remain to follow the puppy around the house as he explores and, from the sound of it, finds something he wants to shred right away.

Will can’t think of anything so precious to him that he should worry. He licks his lips out of nervous habit before asking, “Are you hungry?”

Hannibal fixes him with a meaningful look. “Are you inviting me for dinner, Doctor Graham?”

Will’s throat clicks as he swallows. “I mean, I just, I’m sure I have more than enough—”

“I would love to stay, Will.”

He knows his ears are burning red hot, so he mumbles an excuse and rises to his feet, quickly disappearing into the kitchen.

It’s strange, having Hannibal in his home.

But not unpleasant.

While setting the table, Will throws quick glances over his shoulder so he can watch Hannibal prowl around the front of the house. Because that’s what he does, he _prowls._ He makes very little sound, light on his feet and even more careful when he reaches to lift something off the bookshelves, inspecting it closely before putting it back. His eyes are devouring everything in sight. Will can’t find it in himself to be offended by the forwardness. He’s getting an odd pleasure out of seeing Hannibal touching his belongings, taking such an interest in his rather simple home.

When Hannibal spends an extended amount of time at the fly tying station, Will whistles for his attention. He jerks his head toward the kitchen. “Come eat.”  

“I should cook for you,” Hannibal suggests after they’ve seated themselves across from each another.

Will doesn’t comment on it, scrambling to form any sort of reply, whether it be dissent or agreement, but the window of time passes and before he knows it he’s successfully created an awkward silence.

He decides to treat this like one of their therapy sessions, because it’s the most familiar to him. “How have you been, Hannibal?”

“Murasaki has returned home, and I’ve fallen back into my old routine. It’s reduced some stress. However, Frederick has been his usual insufferable self.”

Will has only swallowed one or two bites, and he’s suddenly not hungry anymore. Absolutely none of this news pleases him, and it’s confusing as to _why._ “I was under the impression Frederick had left,” he says, with as much indifference as he can muster, and stuffs his mouth to silence whatever stupidity threatens to fill the air next.

“Hardly,” Hannibal says, actually indifferent. “I’ve told you what he does.”

Will unfortunately recalls the discussion. _‘I let him kiss me. I let him fuck me. He stops asking questions, and I’m free to focus on more important things.’_ He gulps his food, which feels particularly dry, scratching his throat all the way down. It’s tasteless, in every sense of the word. “You don’t think you’re being somewhat cruel, stringing him along?” But all he’s thinking about is Frederick touching him. Will holds onto the knife so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

“Frederick is not confused about what this is, or who I am,” Hannibal says. If he notices Will’s discomfort, he pretends not to see it. “I wouldn’t call him a masochist, but he has a severe victim complex. He needs to feel persecuted. I’m happy to help.”  

“You think he _likes_ it when you’re unfaithful?”

“I never promised him faithfulness,” Hannibal says. “I’m giving him exactly what he wants.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I’ve never lifted a finger to convince him to stay, but he still chooses to.”

“If that’s true,” Will says, carefully setting down his cutlery, “Wouldn’t it be easier for you to just end it officially?”

Hannibal tilts his head. “You’re assuming I want to get rid of him.”

“You don’t? Could’ve fooled me, you always seem exasperated with him.”

“Most of the time, I am,” Hannibal admits. He smiles, but not the genuine way that had lit his face so thoroughly before and warmed Will from the inside out. “But he can also be very entertaining, and I have no patience for boredom. If he wants to alleviate it, I’ll allow it. It’s his choice.”

_‘He’s a true sociopath! Diagnose that, why don’t you?’_

Will shies away from the echo. “I see,” he says, but he doesn’t, not really.

He only grunts his approval when Hannibal offers to help wash up. Will stands beside him at the sink with his muscles drawn tight, aching with the effort to keep the minuscule amount of distance already between them. It’s silly. His lungs are hurting. He’s trying not to breathe at all in Hannibal’s presence, for fear that it might be too noticeable. 

“You haven’t been drinking tonight,” Hannibal notes, their fingers brushing as Will hands over a dripping plate. Hannibal leans almost imperceptibly closer, but Will catches the (polite? It’s so delicate) sniff. “Or yesterday.”

Will shrugs his shoulders. “It wasn’t doing me any good,” he says lamely.

Hannibal makes a small noise of agreement, taking the hint; he works in silence.

Will can’t stand it.

“Shouldn’t we talk about what happened?” he asks suddenly, nearly dropping a glass, keeping his eyes fixed directly on the soapy water in front of him. “Don’t you dare fucking ask me what I mean,” he adds, glancing in Hannibal’s direction. He shivers at the brief, upwards twitch of Hannibal’s very kissable mouth. _There you are._ “Or if I want to talk about it,” Will adds quietly, his strength leaving him. “I do.”

“What should we discuss about that night, in particular?” Hannibal asks, examining the last of the dishes closely. Satisfied, he sets them aside. “Did you enjoy yourself? Would you prefer if it never happened again?” His dark eyes meet Will’s blue, flecked with their usual muddy red. “Shall I leave?”

“You _know_ I want you here,” Will scolds, reaching for one of Hannibal’s hands. He’s delightfully warm. Will trails his fingers across the open palm, momentarily amazed with its softness. “Don’t pretend otherwise, because I see straight through you.”

“What do you want me to—”

“What is this?” Will interrupts. “What are we?”

Hannibal blinks slowly, gaze drifting to his hand now held tight in Will’s grasp. He doesn’t pull away. “You are my psychiatrist,” he says. “And my friend.”

“Is that how you want me?” Allowing himself to breathe at last, Will moves closer. Ignoring the nagging feeling in his gut, he places his free hand on the nape of Hannibal’s neck, combing through his hair. _Don’t do this_ , he tells himself, while he continues caressing flushed skin, watching Hannibal’s face for instruction. Hannibal’s expression doesn’t change, but his body is reacting with unmasked satisfaction. Just the slightest shudder, giving Will the confidence to continue. “ _Only_ your friend,” Will says, “Your dutiful psychiatrist?”

“You see me, don’t you?” Hannibal says after a while.

“Yes.”

“Then you know my answer already.”

That doesn’t make it any easier, and he has no alcohol to give him courage.

“I need you to tell me,” Will says lowly, looking down. _I can’t do this_ , he thinks, his conscience attempting to spark rebellion one last time, but failing. He’s done so much worse. Why not do this? He squeezes Hannibal’s fingers, dragging him in until there is no more space left between them. “I only need you to tell me—”

He stumbles, unprepared for the forceful kiss that pushes him against the counter, stepping back until the hard edge digs into his spine. He doesn’t care, dropping his arms to wrap around Hannibal’s waist and tuck him in close, deepening the kiss before either of them can catch their first breath. Memory and familiarity return to him in the sweet taste of Hannibal’s mouth, the too-sharp edges of his teeth and the gentle insistence of his soft lips. It feels like coming home—something he missed dearly. It’s like finally waking after a long time, his mind very hazy at first, slowly easing back into reality and suddenly all at once he’s _warm_ , tingling everywhere and he can’t stop touching.

Will tracks his fingers over Hannibal’s hips, sliding down his curved back to firmly grip his ass. He likes the sharp, soundless inhale of mild surprise his action evokes. He likes that the response steals his own breath right out of his open mouth. He especially likes that Hannibal is seemingly preoccupied with touching Will’s face, admiring it, dragging his thumb over the scratchy beard there. He removes Will’s glasses tentatively, waiting for objection. When it never comes, he plants the lightest of kisses on the bridge of Will’s nose, his forehead, the bone of his cheek…Will feels something like adoration blooming in his chest, a bouquet of it, threatening to burst and break past his ribs in some ugly manner. He _wants_ him. He had just a taste before, and it only whet his appetite.

A high-pitched, unfamiliar bark startles him. He jumps at the noise involuntarily, his arms tightening around Hannibal’s middle as he turns to look at the black and white puppy bouncing around on the kitchen floor. He snorts, torn between amusement at the dog and disappointment because he can feel Hannibal disentangling himself and it’s almost like the pain of losing a limb. His heart aches and he acts fast. Will holds onto him, patiently waiting for Hannibal to meet his eyes before he kisses him again, licking into his mouth while the thrill of it renders them both dizzy and pressing against the other for balance.

Another ear-splitting bark interrupts them and the puppy darts forward to scratch at their legs, white tail swishing fast in his haste to join the fun. His blue eye is somewhat jarring compared to the calm dark brown next to it.

“Murasaki expects my company tonight,” Hannibal confesses, hesitant only during start of the sentence.

Will’s stomach twists into uncomfortable knots and he feels sick but he nods his head in understanding, or he hopes it appears that way. He releases his hold and watches as Hannibal detaches himself, checking and fussing over his own appearance, straightening his clothes and running a hand through his hair once, then twice. It seems like habit, hardly a nervous gesture.

Will stands aside, feeling foolish.   

Murasaki. The name ignites something greedy in him.

His mind roams, giving consideration to the same suspicions he’s had about her since the very beginning, but he cannot give a voice to them. He can’t, and he can’t ask. It isn’t his right, if he still considers himself Hannibal’s psychiatrist, and not...He doesn’t even know what _this_ is, what he should be expecting from it, if he should even expect anything at all.

And it hits him; _The idea of being with me will soon lose its appeal for him._

Isn’t that how it works, has always worked? Week after week, Will settled in his chair opposite Hannibal and wrote down the sometimes contradictory words that poured from Hannibal’s mouth, pondered his motives and debated his points, silently, or together in session. He knows how this progresses. Hannibal chooses a target, makes it his mission in life to conquer them, and then he’s finished. He moves on to something else. ‘ _More important things.’_

Hannibal suffers from intense boredom. He will do anything to ease it. His successes, no matter how great, have always been followed immediately by a desire for _more._ In its own way, it’s tragic. His satisfaction will always be a temporary thing. It could drive a sane man mad, and it will. Arguably, it already has. He's been tracking Will for the past twelve months, the tension and excitement building, and Will permitted it because he never thought it would be anything but a harmless, unspoken game between them. He teased himself with the idea. He never expected it to happen.

And Hannibal might enjoy himself now, but when it’s done, it’s _done._

Will can’t play anymore, not realistically, not with that outcome. He can’t bear it.

He keeps his mouth shut.

He thinks about his reputation, about how tempting and natural it is to see Hannibal underneath him. He thinks about Francis Dolarhyde, frozen and dead. He fiddles needlessly with the sleeves of his button-down and puts his glasses back on, pushing them up high on his face. Hannibal bends to run his hands over the fluffy puppy’s flank, and that’s enough to melt Will’s heart already, distracting him from the memory of frost on his face and his pained lungs, shovels stuck in the snow, and milky glass eyes. 

Hannibal’s expression is kind. When he looks at Will, the same tenderness carries over. Will’s breath hitches and he covers it with an untimely gross cough into one of his fists, biting back the urge to corner Hannibal and _make_ him his, convince him that he would never tire of it, that it could be enough like this, that there’s no need to search for more. He would want for nothing.     

It’s a fantasy.

“What will you name him?”

Will lifts his head, staring at nothing over Hannibal’s shoulder. “Hmm?”

“The dog.”

He considers it, glancing down at the puppy who wiggles in response to being noticed. “I don’t know,” Will says honestly, hoping he doesn’t sound as uninterested as he feels. “I think you’re attached to him already, are you sure you don’t want him?”

For a moment he thinks Hannibal might say yes. “No, he’s yours.”

It sounds settled.

Will chews on his bottom lip thoughtfully, and jerks his head up in realization. Of course. He never asked where the puppy came from, and Hannibal didn’t bother to explain. He narrows his eyes, crossing his arms. “Hannibal, did you go out and _adopt_ this dog just to give him to me? For an excuse to see me?”  

There’s that blessedly crooked smile again. “I wanted to see you, so I brought you a gift.”

Groaning, hiding his own smile with a hand over his face, Will says, “You could have just asked to visit me, you know.”

Hannibal frowns. “You would have said no.”

Hannibal Lecter, wearing shoes worth more than everything Will currently has in his closet put together, stepped into the crowded local shelter and went looking for a dog. He rescued one very lucky puppy, to impress Will. Whether or not it was for selfish reasons, Will appreciates the gesture. Quite a lot, actually. It’s much closer to romancing him than anything else his previous partners have tried in the past.

_Except Hannibal isn’t my partner._

Will takes a breath. “You found him, why don’t you name him?”

“I don’t think…”

“It’s no pressure, you can tell me whenever you think of a good one,” he assures him, leading Hannibal outside because he refuses to just watch him go from his pathetic, safe little corner in the kitchen. He needs to move his feet. He squints after opening the door, the harsh wind stinging his face. It’s dark with the sun gone down and everything is covered with a blueish hue. He holds the door for his companion, sighing quietly when their shoulders brush.

“Our appointment is the day after tomorrow,” Hannibal says. He pulls his gloves out of his coat pocket and slides them on.

“I’ll see you soon, then,” Will murmurs, feeling helpless.

The weakness of his tone convinces Hannibal to face him. He stands perfectly still while Hannibal kisses him a last time, painfully soft, very much like the almost-kiss in his car on that confusing, horrible night. It’s even better, an unspoken promise to continue this somewhere else, some other time. Will thinks about dragging him back into the house, throwing him down on the bed, and his mind abruptly goes blank. If he continues to think like this he will never let him go, he will end it before it starts. Because it _will_ end…

…but he’s prolonged the inevitable before. He needs time to decide what he’s willing to sacrifice. What is this experience worth to him? His license, his dignity? Shivering from the chill, he clutches at Hannibal’s upper arms and rests their foreheads together, breaking the kiss but still sharing warmth, watching the wisps of their breath mix together and disappear in the air.

“Goodnight, Will.”

He furrows his brow. It’s too close to goodbye.

“Drive careful,” Will tells him, and they part ways.

Hours later, something wakes him. He rolls over and out of his sleep, blinking hard until his vision clears so he can read the text on the bright screen.

_Dante_

Will shifts to observe the dreaming puppy curled against his side, its feet occasionally twitching and kicking at his stomach.

Dante, with one eye like Will’s, and one like Hannibal’s.  

 


	6. Chapter 6

Dante bites, _a lot._

Will doesn’t mind, he will do what he can to train it out of him, but his other dogs hate it. He struggles not to laugh whenever he sees one of the bigger mutts running across the yard with its tail tucked between its legs, and the clumsy long-legged puppy loping after it. The pup will learn. Each time Dante bites too hard, Will makes sure to exclaim loudly in ‘pain,’ quite like his poor, terrorized dogs. Whenever it happens, Dante rears his head back in surprise, ears perked up high. He’s noticeably gentler next time, and Will rewards him for his thoughtfulness. It has been a long time since he raised a puppy—most of his dogs were rescued as unwanted adults in shelters, or they simply appeared in the area as they were. On his second day in the pack, little Dante rolls around in murky puddles after a heavy evening rain. Will watches from the porch for a while, too amused to cut the play so short, before he finally scoops him up and takes him inside for a bath.

Will does something stupid. Dante sits obediently in the bathroom, muddy paws planted flat on the floor and his mouth wide open in a happy doggish grin, and Will takes his picture. He attaches the image to a text message and sends it to his patient before he can change his mind, and sets his phone aside to wrestle the puppy into the tub. Dante whines and flops about, sloshing water everywhere just as expected, but he’s a good boy for the most part. When his phone vibrates against the sink counter, Will pretends not to hear it. He feigns patience and it drives him absolutely crazy. He fidgets from where he kneels on the floor, more restless than Dante. It’s bad for his knees. As he repeatedly towel dries the squirming puppy, determined to wait, all he can think about is checking the response. It’s similar to the building excitement he often felt on Christmas mornings as a child, glad to have even the smallest amount of presents under the tree. Clearly, he’s become embarrassingly desperate for meaningful human connection. He makes a mental note to find a new activity to enjoy, hopefully enough to help fill the void. New dogs just aren't cutting it anymore.

Hannibal tricked him into revealing his home address. If his past enjoyment of pushing boundaries is anything to go by, the clock is ticking. Dante was a welcome gift, but the puppy is also just another tool for Hannibal to manipulate his psychiatrist. Eventually Hannibal will show up uninvited to Will’s home, Will knows this. Admittedly tempting, practically radiating vulnerability, and with an excellent excuse. Hannibal is _exceptionally_ good at making himself alluring to others, his personality and body language easily adapted to his targets’ preferences. Will should be preparing for that inevitability. He really _shouldn’t_ be encouraging casual conversation via text messages.

And yet.

Hannibal’s response reads,

_I see you’ve half drowned him already._

Will scoffs, his smile uncharacteristically lopsided and unrestrained. He sends a follow-up picture of the now very fluffy, still grinning puppy.

 **[Will]** _Is that better?_

He receives a reply almost immediately after pressing _send._

 **[Hannibal]** _Much better. How is he faring in your pack?_

Hannibal wants a legit conversation. Perhaps Will should have stuck to sending puppy photos.

Will scratches at his face and decides to leave it at that for now, showering off the dirty soap water and itchy dog hair that clings to his skin. As soon as he steps under the spray he wishes he had his phone in his hands. Predictable. He snorts, blowing his breath and wiping at his eyes, stifling a headache. Since this whole thing started, Hannibal Lecter has had permanent residence in thoughts, and lingers near the forefront of his mind more and more. It doesn’t help that Will attached himself to his patient first, dooming himself from the start. He was foolish enough to consider the boy an acquaintance even when their relationship was entirely professional, somehow lured by the same tricks Hannibal uses on his string of lovers, but also because he had _finally_ found a mind compatible with his own, after his failure with Alana…

Of course it would be his patient. And little more than a child, at that.

 _Among other things_ , Will thinks, remembering the scene with Francis in Hannibal’s kitchen.

He shakes his head and shrugs into a clean shirt.

 **[Will]** _Learning his place, but nothing seems to deter him for very long. He’s rotten. You picked a bad one._

He climbs into bed, spreading out in the center on his back. His brain is sick of being overworked. He dangles his foot off the edge of the bed and feels a cold nose poke at it, making him flinch in reflex, but with the recognizable click of tiny claws against the floor Dante wanders off to lie with one of the bigger dogs. Will continues staring at the ceiling and is thankful for the numb, tired sensation settling over him. When the phone lights up once more in his hand, the buzz shocks him out of his daze. He didn’t realize he was still holding onto it.

 **[Hannibal]** _And you’ll enjoy the challenge, I’m sure. How are you, Will?_

He could turn his phone off. Right now.

 **[Will]** _You just saw me yesterday._

 **[Hannibal]** _A lot can happen in a day._

 **[Will]** _Nothing has, unless you count losing a shoe as eventful. I still don’t know where Dante put it._ _It’s probably in the mud somewhere._

 **[Hannibal]** _I would be happy to reimburse you for your losses concerning the dog._

Will groans internally.

 **[Will]** _Not necessary._

Nothing happens for a while. Will realizes he simply assumed Hannibal would respond. He feels somewhat disappointed. It just feels like a strange place to leave it. He leans over to place the phone on his bedside dresser, hesitates, and lies back down with it.

 **[Will]** _What about you? How are you doing?_

He winces when he presses _send_ and immediately throws his arm over his face, as if to shield himself from his bad decisions.

He’s hesitant to open the image that is sent to him in return. Curiosity wins out.

Will honestly has no earthly idea where Hannibal is, or if he’s even in Baltimore. It’s a very high end restaurant, he thinks, with blaring red lighting that casts everything into shadow. The place has an impressive bar, going on the strangely colored drinks placed on the unusually jet black tablecloth. Hannibal is nicely dressed but his demeanor is entirely relaxed, hair falling free over his eyes as a pretty girl leans into him to wave at the camera, styled ringlets of brown hair littering her bare shoulders. If Will didn’t know any better, he would assume they were siblings. Both of them seem equally uninterested in what is happening around them, as comfortable and close as two cats. Will’s attention keeps drifting to Hannibal, a peculiar ache forming in his chest at being granted this small glimpse into his personal life. He racks his brain, wondering if he can place a name to the face, based on scarce mentions of friends during their past sessions. It turns out he can.

 **[Will]** _If I’m not mistaken, your friend is Margot?_

 **[Hannibal]** _I’m impressed, Will. I’ve hardly mentioned her._

 **[Will]** _It’s sort of my job to listen and take notes._

Does that sound too rude?

**[Will]** _Please tell me she doesn’t know you sent that picture to your psychiatrist._

**[Hannibal]** _I sincerely doubt she cares, but I named no names._

 **[Will]** _Good._

He eyes the alcohol.

 **[Will]** _You’ll remember we have a session tomorrow? Getting kind of late._

God, he feels old.

 **[Hannibal]** _Of course, in the evening._

 **[Will]** _Don’t complain to me when you’re still hungover._

 **[Hannibal]** _I will refrain from doing so._

Will swallows dryly.

 **[Will]** _Goodnight, Hannibal._

Except he doesn’t sleep right away. With even more curiosity gnawing at his stomach, he retreats to the web browser and searches _Margot Verger._ He did this before with Hannibal’s name, embarrassingly early in their relationship, and found nothing aside from a few mentions in student articles pertaining to Johns Hopkins. Will has no interest in establishing an online persona either, but he expected Hannibal to have at least _something_ set up due to his nearly overwhelming popularity. He discovers Margot’s social media account right off the bat. He feels like an absolute weirdo while scrolling through her profile, which is set to public viewing but does nothing for his guilt, hoping to see something recent. Loading first is an image similar to what Hannibal sent him, though this was clearly taken by Margot herself. Will is disappointed to find a matching picture of Frederick Chilton below that, but pleased to see him looking quite put-out. He doesn’t want to be there. He was either forced to attend or too afraid to let his boyfriend venture out unsupervised. According to the time stamp, it was taken around ten minutes ago. A little too eagerly, Will wastes no time in hunting down Frederick’s account next.

He instantly feels horrible.

It’s a pretty gloomy narrative, extremely sad in that Frederick is obviously genuinely infatuated with Hannibal, at least on some level. Most of the statuses are about his boyfriend, either stating it outright or vaguely in the more depressing ones. One of the pictures on his page is surprisingly artful, captured while Hannibal was looking away. Will catches himself feeling sorry for the kid _again_ , and deeply ashamed because of his own…is it _jealousy?_ Is Will jealous?

Frederick is not a happy person. He can’t possibly enjoy Hannibal’s behavior. The statuses don’t strike Will as fabricated and they hardly get any response as it is, so he isn’t getting attention from it. Scrolling down, Will is met with the unusual instance of Frederick smiling. He rests against a sofa, holding his phone above his head to take a selfie. Hannibal is seemingly asleep with his cheek pressed to Frederick’s chest, deceivingly sweet. Before Will can determine how he feels about this, his phone vibrates unexpectedly and he fumbles with it a little, as if he’s just been caught snooping.

He expects a belated _Goodnight Will_ but what he gets instead is a picture that both infuriates and confuses him in equal measure.

The lights are too bright and the background is lined with plain white tiles, indicating the privacy of a bathroom. Hannibal looks relatively disheveled, shirt partly unbuttoned and his hair a mess, head thrown back against the wall. Someone is covering his neck with kisses. The stranger’s face is mostly hidden, but the unique twirl of his curls and the color is alarmingly similar to Will's hair. He recognizes him as Anthony, the young man he banished from Hannibal’s apartment nearly a week ago and Hannibal’s longtime accomplice. How Anthony managed to meet Hannibal with Frederick waiting outside is almost praiseworthy, if it wasn't so disgusting.

Will tosses his phone onto the nightstand and turns his back to it. Nervous tension bubbles inside his veins and makes him restless. He closes his eyes and, of course, can’t think of anything else.

Avoiding any specific line of reasoning, he rolls over and picks his phone back up.

He can’t stop looking at Hannibal.

Ordinarily sharp features are softened from pleasure, blood colored eyes almost closed and yet even the smallest sliver of maroon visible through his lashes is enough to root Will to the spot and take his breath away. His hair is tousled, like how Will found him just a few nights ago, more proof of his conquest. Hannibal’s mouth is swollen from being kissed, bottom lip stained with a spot of blood, a deep flush creeping up from his throat and washing over his baby smooth face. It’s easy to focus solely on him—he made it so that _he_ is what draws Will’s attention, and Anthony is all but forgotten, a harmless nobody in the corner, almost out of frame. It doesn’t take much effort for Will to insert himself in the man’s position. The likeness helps.

_Oh._

“Huh,” Will breathes. “You little shit.”

His cock stirs, straining noticeably against his boxers and he screws his eyes shut in disbelief. But resistance is futile. His mind roams where it wants, whether or not his eyes are closed. He peeks, noting that his tentative interest has not been affected, mostly at a standstill. The image on his phone glares back at him in the darkness, almost mocking. Hannibal is manipulating him again. Each time more brazen than the last. Indirectness has never been an issue with Hannibal, but this is different. Hannibal is providing Will with two choices here; he can either be miserable for the rest of the night attempting to ignore his arousal, overthinking and not sleeping a wink, or he can be miserable and enjoy himself anyway and then sleep like the dead. The downside is the overwhelming shame he will experience in the aftermath, but he already feels plenty guilty for letting it go this far.

Will can’t hold out forever. He knows it, and Hannibal knows it. He knows exactly how to corner Will into saying yes. And strangely, that thought is what rekindles Will’s desire, burning low in his stomach.

 _Nobody has to know_ , his temptation tells him.

He stares at his lovely patient, settling for timidly palming himself through his clothes. A sudden rush of excitement inches down his spine and shoots straight into his dick. He makes himself comfortable, muscles relaxing and his body sinking further into the mattress. He focuses on Hannibal’s hooded eyes, his slightly parted lips, and right away Will shifts fussily on the bed. His thoughts are absorbed with touching. He can imagine his fingers carding through Hannibal’s silken hair. The curse of his empathy becomes a gift, conjuring up the concept as if it’s happening now in front of him.

Hannibal is warm and inviting and Will buries himself between his thighs, holding him up high against the wall and rolling his hips into the heat. Twitching slightly, Will reluctantly withdraws from the daydream. He wets his free hand and slips it beneath his boxers to firmly grip and stroke himself, while he blinks rapidly at the phone in his other hand. He jerks forward into his fist as his eyes connect with Hannibal’s. Will blows out his breath, gently tugging and fighting off the desire to drift away, to let his imagination go wild, and it really is a losing battle. The seed has been planted for too long. What is the boy doing in this very moment? Is Anthony fucking him? If not, someone should.

He gives, revisits his daydream and indulges himself, fastening his mouth to Hannibal’s neck. Hannibal pushes against him, overly smug and smirking with triumph, so Will wipes it away with an open-mouthed kiss and drags him to the cold floor. He could fuck him here. It’s in his head after all, safely locked away. Hannibal agrees darkly, shoving Will onto his back. Hannibal straddles his stomach and seats himself, grinding down against Will’s leaking cock. Will holds his breath. Yes, that’s perfect. He sticks with that visual, thrusting up into the heavy weight holding him down, shivering when his enthusiasm is reciprocated. He would love to see Hannibal from the ground, place his hands on the boy’s hips and guide him as they move together, listen to him moan and become increasingly desperate as Will tries to shush him, lest they get caught. Will covers Hannibal’s mouth with a hand, _feels_ him kiss the palm and the vibrations of his whimpering spreads across Will’s skin—

Will’s eyes shoot open and he’s breathing erratically, still trembling even as his fingers feel incredibly sticky and he knows he must have finished some time ago. In a bit of a shock, he takes a moment to gather himself before hastily cleaning up in the bathroom. As he stumbles back to bed his limbs feel weighted down and his head thrums with his heart beat. He loses his phone somewhere in between the climax and the shameful walk to and from the sink. He thinks he might feel it somewhere near his foot, but he’s too exhausted to reach for it. And he’s afraid to look at Hannibal’s face, even if it is just a bunch of pixels. With the heat of the moment fading, the scene less and less tangible as his mind and body begin to cool down, he feels nauseated. He tosses and turns for about an hour before he finally gets sick.

 

* * *

 

Will was foolish enough to bookmark Margot and Frederick’s social media pages and he opens his browser now to check for any new developments. There is only one patient left to see today and any distraction until then is incredibly welcome, as long as it takes away from the fluttering of his heart and the angry bees in his limbs. He squints against the fireball of the evening sun and closes the curtains so he can finally read. He doesn’t learn much of anything, except Margot has a strong affinity for the fine arts and lovely women, whereas Frederick is a devoted fan of soap operas, which honestly explains a lot.

Will is sorely disappointed with the lack of updates. He finds himself wishing not for the first time that Hannibal had a personal account he could keep up with instead of doing… _this._ It would make the pathetic, obsessive stalking a bit easier, and he has only been at it for less than a day. He keeps looking over his shoulder, checking the room for inhabitants that he knows don’t exist. How Hannibal managed to follow Will around for as long as he did without first drowning in his own embarrassment and uncertainty is impressive. It’s a shame Will can’t ask him for tips. Hannibal is naturally shameless, to the point that Will has begun to suspect he is incapable of feeling shame. His unapologetic nature is both admirable and stress-inducing.

Upon checking the time Will tucks his phone into the drawer of his desk and stands, patting down his clothes self-consciously and rearranging some of the items on his desk without necessarily needing to. Less than satisfied, he crosses the room in a few strides and opens the door of the waiting room. He takes a breath and loses it just as fast, bewildered with just how charming his patient appears before him, his eyes alarmingly bright and his clothes picked even more carefully than normal to show off his best attributes. There isn’t the slightest hint of a hangover or exhaustion lingering in his overly confident posture. If anything, he’s practically glowing with satisfaction. “Good evening, Will.”  

“Doctor Graham,” Will corrects uselessly, his throat tightening and making the words sound throttled. He is completely unprepared for this conversation. Every little damning detail about the night before comes rushing to the surface, as he figured it would. He might be blushing. Quickly, he schools his face into a stony expression and steps aside, waiting for Hannibal to pass. He doesn’t give the boy an opportunity to brush shoulders, backing away from him at the last second.

Hannibal fully expected Will's reaction, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Can he _smell_ it?

Will works fast to regain his composure. “What would you like us to discuss today?”

“Are you sure you want me to start?” Hannibal teases, and Will turns around to find him sitting behind the desk where he shouldn’t be, head perched on clasped fingers and peering up at his psychiatrist with rapt attention. For the life of him, Will can’t figure out why this is a turn on.

“It’s your hour, Hannibal.” He keeps his voice controlled and his stare vacant. “We’ll talk about whatever you want.”

Hannibal’s eyes flash in reassessment, weighing his options, and he decidedly removes his arms from the desk. The chair creaks. Whatever he was considering before, it’s gone. Uncertainty takes over his features, hair falling across his eyes and his chin pointing toward his chest. He taps absently at the dark stained oak, observing the fingerprints he leaves behind. His voice is calculating, hesitant. Nervous of Will’s reaction, maybe. That alone raises red flags. Or is it embarrassment?

“There is something else I wish to discuss first. My aunt.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is wrong my little murder muffin?? also i’m pretty sure hannibal has an account but until i decide on an alias will isn’t going to find it lol


	7. Chapter 7

Will approaches his usual spot and sits down, folding one leg over the other. He doesn’t bother with retrieving his notes. He’s given up the whole process, as this can hardly be referred to as therapy any longer…but today it might be. He links his fingers together and sets his hands in his lap, turning his attention to the boy still seated behind his desk. Hannibal hasn’t met his eyes, not since he decided to bring up the topic Will has always been much too careful to ask about; _Murasaki._ He fights the protective feeling currently itching at his insides, quietly hating the troubled expression written in Hannibal’s face. It doesn’t belong there. Will prepares to hear the worst, reigning in his emotions, intending to lock them away for the remainder of the session. He needs a quiet mind. But the restless fire continues to burn, albeit small, in the pit of his stomach.

So, what is it?

Hannibal licks his lips a few times, constricted pupils finally darting somewhere other than his feet, but they land on an old trinket first. He reaches out across the desk and inspects the object while he speaks, fingers always moving, the lowered tone of his voice betraying his agitation if his fidgeting doesn’t first. “I saw her recently,” he says, reluctant. “When I left your house that evening, she was expecting my company. She told me she had news to share. I…I did not like what she had to say.”

Will tilts his head in Hannibal’s direction, waiting for him to continue. He holds his breath, muscles aching from the tension building in his upper back and shoulders. Hannibal speaks of her so rarely. Will won’t cut him off, even if it kills him. In this moment, he is Hannibal’s psychiatrist again. Not his friend, not his lover.

No, never that.

“During her visit overseas, she claims to have…rekindled an old friendship.” Hannibal wrinkles his nose in distaste, setting down the trinket with noticeable force. He pauses to frown at his lack of self-control. It surprised him. “And so she thinks she’s fallen in love. She gives serious consideration to leaving the states, and tells me I cannot follow. I am expected to stay behind while she chases the ghosts of her past.”

It is high time Hannibal learned to live without her influence, but it might be too late. Seeing him now, the aggression sleeping under his skin, knowing just what he is capable of, Will thinks it could possibly be dangerous for Murasaki to leave. “What frustrates you?” he tries, testing the waters. “Is it because you must share her affection, or because you must live without her presence?”

“Both,” Hannibal decides.

“You must realize she has every right to do whatever she likes, Hannibal. She has raised you to adulthood. It would not necessarily be abandoning you now.” This is an outright lie, as she has done very little to discourage his emotional reliance on her and everything to encourage it, but Will wants him to be reasonable. “You said she _thinks_ she has fallen in love. Do you doubt her own judgment?”

“She does not belong to this man.”

“She belongs to no one but herself—”

“She promised me,” Hannibal interrupts, his voice slightly raised.

Will shifts in his seat, releasing a hushed sigh. He must tread carefully. “What did she promise you?”

Still, Hannibal will not look at him. “It was once enough for her, the resemblance to my uncle. I suppose it isn’t anymore. It’s strange. I had thought, as I got older…” He trails off, gone quiet with undisguised disappointment.

Will cannot entirely understand his words without the proper context, but that old, familiar suspicion of his is quickly summoned from its shallow grave.

It was backwards.

“What…do you feel for your aunt?”

“I love her,” Hannibal says instantly, his blood colored depths meeting Will’s as if jolted by an electric shock. 

“I don’t doubt you love her,” Will assures him. “What kind of love? Do you love her as a nephew adores his aunt, his guardian,” he hesitates, weighing the limited options, how he might phrase the suggestion without upsetting him, but eventually determines there is no easier way. “Or had you been hoping for something else?”

“Are you not going to say it?” Hannibal asks, but the question is more of a dare. He’s frozen, like a cat perched and waiting with its hackles raised and muscles bunched together for a quick getaway, or to lunge forward. “You have that same look on your face every time she touches me or speaks with you. Please, go on. You’ve wanted to ask me this for months.”

Will wets his mouth. “All right. Has she ever been inappropriate with you?”

“No.”

Will detects no lie. He was wrong.

He can’t be bothered to wallow in guilt over his unfair judgment of the poor woman, not at the moment. Later he will berate himself, but not in Hannibal’s company.

“But you wanted her to. Want,” he corrects, fascinated with the angry twitch of Hannibal’s lip, the slightest hint of bared teeth before they disappear.

“Yes,” Hannibal replies, slowly composing himself, his spine straightening and his head held a bit higher. Without shame. “I have loved her always, I did whatever she asked of me, and now she wants to leave me and all we shared and made here together for a stranger.”

The irony.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?”

Hannibal closes his mouth but his eyes are like fire, flickering dangerously from an otherwise black abyss.

“She was wrong to encourage codependency,” Will adds quickly, hoping to smooth it over. “And I suspect she is just as attached to you, but if she plans to leave, you cannot stop her. I won’t lie to you, at this point it’s going to be extremely difficult for you to adjust. As your psychiatrist, I will do everything in my power to help you through it.”

Hannibal rises, leaving the safety of the desk with graceful, nearly predatory steps. “Have you ever loved someone, Will?”

“Yes,” Will lies. He doesn’t know. And then, not lying, “However, you aren’t in love.”

Hannibal stops a few feet away, cocking his head to one side. “Oh?”

“You are enamored of her, but you do not love her in… _that_ way.” He’s so sure of it, and he hasn’t been sure of anything when it comes to this boy. He continues, mistakenly enthusiastic as the pieces click into place, “You desire her perhaps, but that isn’t love. What you feel is possession. Obsession. You don’t like it when your ‘things’ are touched or moved without permission. I assume this is why you continue to torture Frederick and reel him in with rare instances of kindness, keeping his hopes alive. Keeping him under your thumb. You crave control like nothing else. But I don’t know why, since my theory was wrong. You debunked it before. So why, Hannibal? You killed a man and it doesn’t affect you, but threats to your authority, that gets your blood pumping. What happened to you?”

Perhaps he went too far.

Nostrils flaring, fingers curled so tightly into his palms that Will suspects he might draw blood with his nails, Hannibal doesn’t blink. He speaks effortlessly, with disciplined control, while his body betrays his frustration with the occasional tremor. “You think you can dissect me so easily, don’t you?”

He pauses to openly savor the regret in Will’s face.

“Hannibal…”

“What else did you assume about me? You pass judgment on my desires, while you think about fucking me every time you so much as close your eyes,” he says, the words barbed and cutting deeply. Will stiffens. “Carrying on for months, pretending I can’t smell the arousal burning on your skin, through your clothes. During our sessions, and every time you saw me in the street. You yearned for me while I was covered in _blood_ , Will _._ And you want me now. I advise you, Doctor Graham, not to try and humiliate _me._ ”

The world spins underneath him with his indignation, sheer embarrassment swallowing him whole.

Will practically leaps from his chair and stumbles toward the coat rack, his mind a panicked mess. All he knows is that he needs to leave, that the space between them can’t be big enough. His mouth is like cotton as he fumbles with a weak reply, struggling with lengthy sleeves and too many buttons. “I’m…I’m sorry. I’ll see you next week, Hannibal.”

It’s all he can manage.

Hannibal doesn’t move, although his body has lost all its tautness, his spine relaxing and his fingers stretched out at his sides, flexing thoughtfully. “We have at least thirty minutes left, _Doctor._ Your patient is distressed. Do you have somewhere else you need to be?” He speaks casually, as if the last few minutes haven’t happened.

“I think that was enough for today,” Will says sharply, mimicking Hannibal’s earlier resentment. “I won’t even charge you for the session if that’s what bothers you. Do yourself a favor and start handling these things on your own.”

He stops in the doorway and turns to look over his shoulder.

With no fight left in him, Hannibal only blinks in response.

“What are you waiting for? Get out of my office,” Will grumbles.

“We barely discussed it,” Hannibal insists stubbornly, but he obediently follows Will’s directions.

Will locks the door and walks them to the elevator, without much choice despite abhorring the idea of being in a confined space. Hannibal crosses his arms and keeps his hands to himself, his calm expression suggesting deep thought. Perhaps he regrets his outburst too, but Will doubts it. As a general rule, Hannibal does not regret his actions, and certainly not his words. Will is the first to exit the elevator when the doors slide open, and the first to rush outside, down the steps and into the freezing air. He listens to the hesitant footsteps falling behind his, cursing under his breath when they hasten.

He spins around. “What?”

“You said you’ve been in love before,” Hannibal says. “With who?”

Will shakes his head, backing away in the direction of the parking lot. “Go home, Hannibal,” he says, with all the effort of shooing a stray cat.

“Alana Bloom?”

That stops him. Hannibal shouldn’t be aware of the fact that his last psychiatrist was Will’s ex-girlfriend. Alana wouldn’t tell her patient something so personal, would she? She was always extremely professional. Will finds it hard to imagine, but he can’t see another possibility. Alana had no photos of him, and nothing on display in her office that might have even alluded to Will’s existence. She was thoroughly embarrassed of him, Will suspects.

His heart thundering inside his chest, Will decides it’s not really worth asking about. For all he knows, Hannibal has been following him for _longer_ than he originally thought. And he would rather not think about that, because for some reason this is where he draws the line. He can feel Hannibal’s eyes watching him, begging him to wait, even as Hannibal’s pride keeps him from asking aloud. Will heads for his car without offering so much as an offhanded comment. He thinks he might actually get there relatively unhindered, until he hears a confession:

“She gave me a referral because we had sex.”

His breath is violently knocked out of him, hard as a punch to the gut. He turns. “ _What did you just fucking say?_ ”

Hannibal swallows visibly, dragging his foot across asphalt as he leans to one side, suddenly uncomfortable. “Looking back on it now, I should have told you sooner. It didn’t seem to matter.”

Will squints, staring confusedly at Hannibal. He mustn’t have heard him correctly. “Say that again.”

“I recognized your scent when I first walked into your office. I used to smell it on her all the time.”

No, no, _no._

Will walks toward him. He’s numb.

And then he’s _pissed._

To his credit, Hannibal doesn’t step out of reach. “Will, I didn’t know it was—I didn’t know you, or that she would—”

He grips Hannibal’s throat, clenching his teeth as he refrains from squeezing, distantly aware that the moment he does Hannibal will break his arm. But Hannibal doesn’t act, instead tilting his head back to look into Will’s eyes, his own wide and dark with uncharacteristic nervousness. Surely this is a ruse, crafted specifically to appeal to Will’s better nature and to pacify him, force him to release his hold. And it’s _working_. Will doesn’t want to scare him. He definitely doesn’t want to hurt him, at least not physically. So very close to him, high on various emotions and picking up on Hannibal’s, Will wants to kiss him. But he also wants to be cruel. After licking his lips, Will surges forward to smash their mouths together, devouring him greedily, nearly forcing his tongue down Hannibal’s throat. Just as the boy melts into it, Will jerks away, refusing him. He digs into Hannibal’s shoulders hard enough to bruise.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Will tells him, his voice breathy, almost a growl. “I’m _never_ going to fuck you. You’re chaotic. I am not your new plaything, Hannibal. I am your _psychiatrist._ Don’t come to my house. And don’t talk to me. I’ll see you in a week or I won’t see you at all. Understand?”

Hannibal seems genuinely pained. “Will…”

 _Don’t._ _Don’t beg me._

“Do you understand?” he demands.

“Yes.”

He leaves him standing there alone, clueless as to why he didn’t just end it then.

 

* * *

 

“Alana, it’s me. I’d appreciate it if you would call me back this time. I think you owe me an honest explanation. I know about…him.”

Of all the things he could blame Hannibal for, it’s Alana’s fault that they met.

It takes all of his remaining self-control not to smash his cell against the wall. He slams it down on the kitchen table instead, half hoping it breaks. His dogs whimper and retreat to the back of the house, while Dante jumps to place his big paws on Will’s thigh, tail wagging with excitement over the sudden activity. Even Winston keeps a nervous distance, and that hurts the most. Reluctantly, Will pulls the puppy into his lap, too tired to avoid the many well-aimed licks to his jaw and chin. He rubs behind half-floppy ears and considers giving the pup back to Hannibal.

Dante licks Will’s nose.

Probably not.

He covers his face with his hands, ignoring the tiny reassuring flicks of a wet tongue brushing over his fingers, focusing instead on the painful prick of teeth. Hannibal can be incredibly persuasive. Will knows this better than most people. He can’t fault Alana for sleeping with him, not without being a massive hypocrite, and especially when Will had so little to offer during their relationship. Nothing but empty echoes of intimacy, the only thing he could produce.

But this was avoidable. How could she do this to him, force them to know each other? Does she truly hate him? He tried, he did his very best. It just wasn’t enough. She could have broken up with him before and he would have understood it. He did understand. He _didn’t_ understand her radio silence. Now he does.

Suddenly, he _gets_ it. Alana thought that with his aversion to intimacy, Will would be the safest bet for continuing Hannibal’s therapy, but she didn’t want the truth to alter his willingness to help. Of course she still wanted the best for her patient. And of course Hannibal had awakened something in him he never felt before, throwing that theory of hers to shit, and of course Will is just one more addition to the long string of lovers Hannibal has acquired over the years. He is nothing special, not even to the one person who actually halfway understands him. But he knew that already. He hangs his head in defeat. If Alana calls, he won’t answer.

There isn’t any point.

Winston nudges at Will’s side, and the rest of the dogs trickle back in to offer comfort.

He wastes several hours each night the following week sprawled across his bed and nosily scrolling through social media accounts. It’s his new addiction, and he’s starting to wonder if drinking would be healthier. Sometimes he just browses, hoping to eventually see the appeal of the application, but his nightly ritual mostly consists of obsessively checking on Hannibal’s friends in case he catches a glimpse of the boy himself. It’s rare that he does. Hannibal withdraws from his inner circle for a few days. When Will promises himself it’ll be the last time he looks, about to delete the bookmarks, Hannibal reappears on Margot’s page.  

“For fuck’s sake,” Will mutters.

It’s tagged, not added by Margot. Quite a few people are in attendance at this event. A girl with multicolored hair, the smug resident assistant, blows thick smoke from her mouth and looks even more self-satisfied as she angles the front-facing camera to point at the scene behind her. Crawled in Frederick’s lap and kissing him quite fiercely, in an uncommon public display of affection, is Hannibal. Despite the wave of nausea overtaking him, and beyond his childish envy, the picture strikes Will as bizarre. Hannibal would never approve of such a photo being posted for all the world to see, and his blissed out expression is strange for…well, for it only being _Frederick._ Frederick himself seems taken aback, not quite sure what to do with a lap full of Hannibal Lecter despite being his boyfriend. Said boyfriend appears a complete mess. Did Murasaki leave already? Could this be stress?

The caption simply reads, ' _wow??'_

Will doesn’t like it. Something about it feels…off.

Dante chomps down on Will’s toes and he curses again, pulling his leg back to safety under the covers. He takes it as a sign to call it quits. He settles down for the night in total darkness. He listens to the sound of his dogs’ regulated breathing and the telltale rumbling of distant thunder and closes his eyes. Sleep avoids him, darting just out of reach each time he feels himself fall. Behind his eyes, he sees that charmingly crooked smile, the real one, the one that usually makes his toes curl and his stomach flip in an overwhelmingly pleasant manner. It’s tainted now, only upsetting him further.

 

* * *

 

It’s hilarious that he went home on someone else’s arm other than the culprit who drugged his drink, with whom he made hard eye contact before he left, but that is the extent of his amusement.

Hannibal doesn’t enjoy the warm palm spread across the back of his skull, keeping him in place, but it seems counter-productive to complain. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the lightning strikes outside. The storm slows under his scrutiny. He counts the strikes, keeping his eyes fixed on the sickly colored sky until the flashes start blinding him. Normally he would roll over and take control, take the pleasure that evades him so completely, and his companion would hardly protest, but Hannibal doesn’t want to see them. It might make him sick, and not as a side effect of the drug currently addling his brain. It's too much effort to move anyway.

What he truly wants is to gouge out their eyes, which he can feel burning against his skin in the way he dislikes most, as if he is a possession to be spread and enjoyed, but not truly appreciated. If such a thing exists. He wants to knock out their teeth, make them choke on their own molars so he doesn’t have to hear the irritating sound of their pleasure. Or he might bite into their throat, rip out a pound of flesh. The gush of blood would at least drown out the overwhelming smell of sweat and Frederick’s scent, which has become utterly unbearable. Hannibal simply can’t stand him anymore. He shuts his eyes tight, rubbing his face against the pillowcase and inhales detergent instead.

These disturbing ideas are nothing new, just average intrusive thoughts not worth mentioning in therapy, but they have been increasing since the incident with Francis. Now its appeal is almost irresistible, occupying his mind with more intensity than what is currently happening to him.

There is one surefire way to enjoy this activity, however. No matter how much he despises Frederick’s company as of late.

Doctor Graham.

 _Will_.

He pushes away the ache that comes with the name, the unnerving newness of uncertainty.

Before he can construct his fantasy, Frederick grunts and stops. Hannibal wrinkles his nose at the drool he inadvertently left on the pillow while he was floating away. He counts the seconds until the heat disappears from above him, welcoming the cold breeze like an old friend. He shifts to lie on his side and balances on the very edge of the bed, putting a tolerable amount of distance between them. He absently drags his fingers along the heated skin of his throat, imagining Will's fierce but gentle touch from days ago. 

Watching the storm more closely, he thinks about Will’s kisses, about the lightning strikes that burst inside his stomach and the weight that fills his limbs whenever Will touches him or merely smiles in his presence. His natural smell, of dogs and pine and cheap whiskey, which drove him crazy before he even knew Will. His skin prickles. His infatuation with Will is _different_ and _addictive_ and _infuriating._  His Will is special. If he is destined to lose Murasaki, he does not want to lose Will as well. It would be such a waste; he hasn’t fully explored what it is about the man that attracts him so. When he finishes licking his wounds he’ll make a move, perhaps alter his entire approach. After months of waiting and teasing his patience is crumbling, he’s losing his footing, and Will seems to be losing interest. He shouldn’t have mentioned Alana, but he wanted to crush any spark Will might have had left for her. It was impulsive, desperate. Will is…extremely unhappy with him.

Did he just ruin his chances?

An alien sense of fear grips him, physically _hurts._

Tonight, then.

“Frederick.”

“ _Mhmf?_ ”

“I want to break up.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

“ _Will. Answer me, please. I won’t pretend to justify my actions. I can’t. What I’ve done is irreversible, but I can talk to you about it. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I still care about you as a friend._ _You will always be my friend, even if I’m being a shitty one._ _Call me back, okay? I need to know everything is okay. I need to know you’re okay._ ”

Will deletes Alana's voicemail. It depends on how he feels after the session.

His office is cozy, the fireplace blazing behind him to fend off the increasingly fierce winter chill that seeps into the building. The fire warms his back and he shudders with pleasure. His eyelids droop, too heavy to keep open. He slept poorly. Striving to stay awake he nearly knocks his glasses aside, smudging the glass and grumbling about it under his breath, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and his eyes to chase away the burn of exhaustion. His usual nervousness is dulled, blunted by the fatigue. When he welcomes his patient into the room, he’s surprised by the sudden wave of giddiness and the nausea that washes over him, supplied by the memory of their previous session.

Worry riddles his face with lines as Will realizes Hannibal looks even more exhausted than he does. Hannibal has shadowed circles underneath his eyes, also heavily hooded, and he’s somewhat unsteady on his feet. His outfit is less showy than usual, style forfeited for comfort, and as Will takes his coat he bites down on a sharp inhale at seeing him in a simple, solid colored sweater. It makes him seem smaller, especially with windblown hair that falls over his eyes and gives him an overall boyish appearance. Before Will can question him on his disarray, likely to get an identical retort, Hannibal greets him politely while pointedly avoiding eye contact and walks into the belly of the room. With such timidity being atypical of Hannibal, the behavior is disconcerting.  

Hannibal shrinks even more in the heat, shoulders dropping in relief. He casts a longing glance to the chaise and tentatively looks over at Will next, focusing on his chin instead of his eyes. He rolls an idea over in his mind before he speaks. “Do you mind if I rest for a few minutes?”

Will isn’t exactly opposed, but this is unexpected. “That—yes, that’s fine. This is your hour,” he finds himself repeating.

Nodding, Hannibal sinks into the cushions. He exhales heavily as his spine cracks and he settles an arm over his belly, practically nuzzling the chaise as he settles. Blood colored eyes drift closed and he shifts until he’s satisfied, head tilted back and throat exposed, the skin interestingly bare and unmarked. Will watches him. He can hardly tear his gaze away now, pretending to review some paperwork at his desk while the hardcover he’d been reading sits dog-eared and the boy lies dozing only several tempting feet away. Tempting, because Will would love to join him. Partly for the opportunity to nap, and partly because he misses the closeness they shared there. Drunk, granted, and the memory is fuzzy as a result, but his body remembers it perfectly; fixed between open thighs and hovering over the pretty thing lounging there now.

Remembering that Hannibal can apparently smell his arousal, he sets the thought aside.

Hannibal’s breathing slows and he falls fast asleep within the first couple of minutes. Leaning against the palm pressed to his cheek, Will fights the urge to sleep at his desk as well. Hannibal is probably hungover, he thinks sluggishly, referring to his late night discovery and the picture that was posted, but it must be something else, too. And more than his argument with Will, though it definitely plays a large part in his distress. Almost certainly this is because of Murasaki. Will supposes he won’t get any real answers until Hannibal wakes, so he continues to read his book. Ironically, it’s something that might provide some insight into the boy’s current state of mind.

The clock ticks and the minutes pass, until the entire hour has been spent. Will stifles a yawn and keeps reading, unwilling to bother Hannibal when he looks so...well, contented. He doesn’t have any other appointments today. He’s in no hurry.

“You didn’t wake me,” comes the disoriented mumble a few minutes after the hour is over. Will can’t help but feel charmed by his delicate, catlike stirring. Hannibal blinks and looks around the room, taking note of any changes, composing himself at an impressive pace.

“It was no trouble,” Will tells him. “If you aren’t busy, however, I wouldn’t mind starting the session now. If you have time, of course.” _I’m not quite ready to say goodbye_ , he adds silently, unable to let go of his disappointment. He’s waited an entire week for this confrontation…

…but the boy has every right to pretend it didn’t happen, especially because of Will’s behavior at the time.

“If it’s no trouble.” Hannibal uses Will’s words, without any hint of sarcasm, and takes his proper seat. He moves slowly, stretching his legs and any sore muscles before he sits, hiking one leg over the other. His aloofness is a charade. He either feels at ease in Will’s company, awkward as it is, or he simply doesn’t care.

“How do you feel today?” Will asks, and not just to be courteous. But masking the inquiry as purely professional interest is impossible, telling by the almost paternal emotion that wells inside him when Hannibal releases another sigh, longer and more audible this time.

“I don’t feel fine,” he says simply. “And neither do you.”

“We aren’t here to discuss my feelings,” Will points out. Hannibal wants to argue with that, Will can sense it, but the urge passes. They sit in silence. “Hangover?” Will prompts, hoping to lighten the mood, to start a conversation, _something._

“Of a sort, but that isn’t important right now.”

“What is?”

“I’ve been tasked with extending you a dinner invitation on behalf of my aunt. I believe it has been set for this Saturday evening. There will be a limited number of acquaintances and close friends present. She would appreciate it if you could come.”

Will’s first thought is to turn it down, purely for the sake of his own mental health and to preserve what reputation he has left. He is an absolute disaster at parties and he sincerely doubts Murasaki has a dog he could keep company with for the duration of the event. “You don’t sound that excited by the idea of my being there.” Will hopes he doesn’t sound too bitter.

“Only because of the circumstances,” Hannibal says, sincere. “I’m not excited by the idea of a party at all, if you can believe it. Not to _sulk_ , but perhaps my mood would be more agreeable if you were there.”  

“You want me to be your emotional support.”

“If you don’t mind.”

He looks so downtrodden that Will can’t bear to see it. He makes his decision, consequences be damned. “Of course,” he says softly. “You only had to ask.”

Hannibal makes a weak noise at that and Will ducks his head, though Hannibal hasn’t tried to meet his eyes. Hannibal has been nothing if not persistent, and today he is entirely indifferent. He might feel put out or embarrassed about what happened between them, but Will’s prickly temper would hardly outright _break_ his iron strong ego. Whether or not Hannibal can take rejection, this seems a silly reaction. It’s frustrating.

Will wants to check him for fever, just in case. He laces his fingers together instead. “Did you have anything else you wanted to discuss?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

The letdown is staggering.

Hannibal stands. “I’ll let you know if there is anything worth hearing about. If that is acceptable,” he adds, likely thinking of Will’s newest rule: _Don’t talk to me._

It isn’t meant to sting him. It’s just asking permission. Regardless, it hurts. “Thank you,” Will offers lamely. He walks him to the exit, heart thundering inside his chest, but before he can think of something to say Hannibal leaves him, wordlessly, in what feels like some sort of smoke-scented haze.

No flirting, harmless or suggestive, there was none of the playful teasing he has come to expect with Hannibal. No wordplay. No subtle kittenish behavior to replace more forward advances. Hannibal came to sleep and invite him to his aunt’s house, and he didn’t seem thrilled. He seemed upset, ill. And his behavior could have been caused by a number of things, which leaves Will exactly where he was over an hour ago, except more agitated.

 _I’m never going to fuck you_ , Will had told him.

Did he give up? Or does he want to be pursued?

What just happened?

 

* * *

 

Will looks forward to the night of the party in the way one looks forward to ripping off a band aid.

He wears one of his best suits and fights with the dogs to avoid getting hair and dirt scattered across the expensive fabric before he even leaves the house. He trims his beard and spends an hour throwing his glasses on and off, eventually settling on wearing them. When he catches Dante chewing on his new shoes he panics, but they are relatively unmarked. Briefly, he wonders why he bothered buying new shoes, as he nearly scuffs them just walking down the driveway to his car. He has the foresight to stop and pick up a bottle of wine but the quality is questionable. Hopefully, it’s the thought that counts. Murasaki has always found him pleasant despite his rudeness, and he’s determined to redeem himself. This event has lurked in the background of his thoughts for days, like a nightmare he can’t shake. It can’t be _that_ bad, there is no _way_ he could fuck it up to the degree he fears. ( _There is._ ) The crowd will be small, but diverse enough to take eyes off him should he need the time to recover from some stupid action of his. He can manage.

At the sight of the house, looming and bright with golden light, the memory of finding Hannibal sitting on the doorstep covered in blood gives him pause. His heart stutters and he waits for it to calm down before he exits the vehicle, after an anxious five minutes of driving around determining where to park. The street is a tight fit, even with the cars being few. The chatty woman with bright red lips who opens the door for him and introduces herself as ‘ _Mrs. Komeda, darling’_ startles him a bit, tugging at his arm and fawning over his tentative hello. Red seems to be her favorite color, as her dress is a striking crimson and her short hair is an unnatural shade of burgundy. She drags him through the foyer, scolding him for being so late (technically, he’s right on time) as she pulls him into the open doorway of a living area filled with people. The hushed sounds of friendly conversation immediately renders him weak in the knees.

“Aren’t you just darling? Come now, Doctor Graham, I think we can find Lady Murasaki around here somewhere. She’s been talking about you nonstop!” she exclaims, shooing away her husband, Will assumes, when the man tries to approach them. She tells her husband that she is ‘ _busy at the moment please’_ and he relents with a good-natured smile. Will’s questioning look must be painfully obvious, because Mrs. Komeda pats him on the shoulder. “All of us are _so_ grateful for the guidance you’ve given our dear Hannibal. Oh, we love him so much. That naughty boy! A little fox. Ah, Lady Murasaki!”

Murasaki mercifully takes him off Mrs. Komeda’s hands, her shoulders bare and surrounded by dark furs, speaking of foxes. Murasaki seems thoroughly amused with Will’s stupefied expression. He clears his throat, just as uncomfortable in her confident presence as he was in Mrs. Komeda’s. “Good evening,” he blurts out, realizing too late that beyond briefly exchanged hellos and goodbyes, they haven’t spoken. Helpless, he motions to the wine bottle under his arm. He’d nearly dropped it several times in Mrs. Komeda’s haste.

“Good evening, Doctor Graham,” Murasaki replies, her quiet delight making him self-conscious. “I’m so glad you could make it. And thank you, that was very kind of you,” she says, pointing to the bottle. “I would offer to take this, but I believe Hannibal is in the kitchen, and he has been looking forward to your company. I trust you know your way around the house well enough to find him?”

He almost nods at her words, before freezing all body movement entirely. He has only visited once, and she doesn’t know about that. Or she shouldn’t. With a reassuring squeeze on his arm that gives nothing away, she takes a restrained sip from her wine glass and moves on to welcome another new arrival. _Well_ , Will thinks bitterly, _at least I wasn’t the last_. But it doesn’t soothe him. Even with Lady Murasaki currently occupied, he feigns confusion before he goes in search of a kitchen he already knows the path to by heart. Without droplets of blood to lead the way it feels surreal, like he was indeed here before, but only in his dreams. That entire night feels like a hallucination.

When he reaches the kitchen the first thing he notices is the spread along the counter tops and over the steel island; a sequence of ornate dishes containing foods so cleverly presented that Will already knows he will feel guilty eating it. The portions are small but there are several courses. The colors contrast and compliment in a strangely artistic manner, the plates perfectly balanced. Realizing he’s likely going to be fed the most expensive meal he will ever receive, he decides to make the best of the evening. Once his wide eyes have had their fill, his sharp vision catches onto the movement in the room and seeks out the figure currently opening a bottle of wine. Standing where Francis was slain, and lovely enough to override the memory.

If Will’s eyes weren’t already the size of saucers, they are now.

“Hello, Will,” Hannibal says, without looking up. The cork comes free with a loud _pop_.

In stark contrast to his disheveled appearance a few days ago, Hannibal is dressed in a sangria colored dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the first two buttons free, his obsidian black blazer folded aside and out of the way of the food. Matching black slacks hug his hips a little too well for Will’s comfort. Perhaps most jarring, aside from the nagging thought that Will would love to see the view from behind, Hannibal’s hair has been cropped short and Will can now gaze upon his unfairly symmetrical face without obstruction.

Hannibal seems intrigued by Will’s apparently very long, starved silence.

Determined not to make a fool of himself, Will enters the room and hands over his own bottle of wine.

“How thoughtful of you,” Hannibal comments, but his sharp teeth flash in a knowing smile and Will sighs, put at ease by the familiar behavior. The weirdness that plagued their appointment has passed. “Have you been assaulted by Mrs. Komeda yet?” Hannibal asks conversationally, retrieving two glasses.

Will takes the crystal glass offered to him and watches eagerly as red wine pools into it. “Yeah, can we hide out in here?”

“For a while,” Hannibal assures him. “I advise you to stay close to me and to watch her hands, but I think most of the focus will be on my aunt tonight. We are relatively safe from Mrs. Komeda’s clutches.”

Will is unable to resist a laugh. He suffers a wave of glee for finding Hannibal in such good spirits. For things being okay, for the time being. _To conveniently forgetting_ , he toasts silently. Wetting his mouth with his tongue and hoping he won’t eventually falter and wipe it on his sleeve as the night progresses, he gives the food a second glance. He’s very impressed. “I knew you liked to cook, but did you really make all this?”

“My aunt shared the labor, despite this being her farewell meal.”

“What is it?”

“Kaiseki. Food in the form of art. The last time we prepared it, it was under somewhat similar circumstances, the loss of my uncle Robert,” Hannibal says, his manner becoming more solemn at the mention. 

Will anxiously taps his fingers against the glass, sad to see Hannibal’s mood swirl down the drain already. “You aren’t losing her, Hannibal.”

“But I am,” Hannibal insists, no grief behind it, only dull acceptance. His attitude sours, but only in that he becomes quieter and a little distant. “In a way. Our time together has come to an end.”

Before he can stop himself, Will reaches out and spreads his palm across Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal’s maroon eyes flick up, widening slightly as he tilts his head to one side. “Will, did you mean what you said about helping me with the transition?”

“Of course I meant it.”

“You might have changed your mind since then.”

Reluctantly, Will drops his arm. The warmth of Hannibal’s clothed skin follows him and he flexes his fingers, chasing the feeling. “Are you going to tell me what was wrong last time, or shall we forget it?” _Was it my fault?_

Hannibal frowns thoughtfully, as if considering telling the truth or a lie. “I was out the night before and I believe my drink had been tampered with. I felt strange, I apologize for my beha—”

“Wait, _what?_ ” Will nearly bellows.

“Nothing happened,” Hannibal says, clearly pleased with Will’s anger, knowing it isn’t directed at him. He smiles, and it’s  _that_ smile. “Doctor Graham, don’t look so mortified. You’ve witnessed firsthand how well I can fend for myself.”

“Yes, I know,” Will says, pinching the bridge of his nose and setting the wine glass down a little too harshly. He’s reeling, incapable of hiding his outrage. He grits his teeth so hard it hurts and he tastes a bit of blood in the wine staining his mouth. He’s cut the inside of his cheek. “But why are you always in danger, one way or another? Jesus, Hannibal. You could have—they could have— _who was it?_ Do you know?”

Hannibal nods.

Will stares, slack jawed. “Aren’t you going to report it?” 

“I actually had something else in mind, but I wanted to run it by you first.” Hannibal looks at him like a child begging their father for a puppy, his rounded eyes questioning.

Will opens his mouth to vehemently object to the disaster Hannibal is suggesting, but Murasaki enters the kitchen absolutely beaming at the sight of them and kindly instructs him to join the others in the dining area. Hannibal shrugs his shoulders almost imperceptibly and Will holds his tongue, for now.

On second thought, he’s more than happy to entertain the idea of the faceless bastard dying at Hannibal’s hands. Only the faintest ghost of doubt prevents him from reflecting too deeply.

 

* * *

 

“It’s an entire performance,” Mrs. Komeda explains to him in a hushed tone.

Will helping himself is out of the question. He takes his cues from the cultured individuals surrounding him, hoping not to offend with his lack of refinement. It’s embarrassing, but he excels in picking up on details such as these, so the only one who notices is the highly entertained boy to his right. Unnerved for many reasons already and not needing yet another, Will gently kicks him in the shin under the table. An even-tempered warning.

He reminds himself to slow down on the drinking, because his face and body are beginning to heat and his skull feels too heavy, falling to one side as he resists putting his elbows on the table. And these prissy people are droning on about things he couldn’t care less about. A heated debate is taking place. He tries to pay attention, but he keeps getting distracted by the way his leg knocks against one of Hannibal’s. It’s purely accidental, but it happens so many times that Hannibal gives him a funny look and finally hooks his foot around Will’s heel and holds him in place so that his leg can stretch out in Hannibal’s space and Will can _relax._ Except he isn’t relaxing, because they are _touching_ and _that should not be happening_ nor should it feel this scandalous.

“What do you think, Doctor Graham?” A gruff voice asks, bleeding through the daze Hannibal’s eyes have Will trapped within.

He panics for exactly two seconds before composing himself. “I’m sorry?” He dips his head to take a drink, ignoring Hannibal’s smirk and the playful tug on his leg.

“Do you think Achilles and Patroclus are a portrayal of a _homosexual_ relationship?”

Will nearly spills wine down his chin.

“Homer did very little to dissuade such an interpretation,” Hannibal interjects calmly, more or less rescuing him from nightmarish embarrassment. It spawns another round of bickering and Will is content to leave the debate to the other men and women, licking his spoon and lamenting the disappearance of his dessert.

Afterward, they migrate into the parlor where Mrs. Komeda entices Murasaki to play a drunken tune on the harpsichord with her. None of this is what Will expected, but then, this is more of a farewell party. He imagines there are usually many more guests, and much less open intoxication.

“So, why did she invite me?” Will asks, leaning over into Hannibal’s space on the sofa. Neither of them have been particularly eager to join the ‘fun,’ content to lounge together and watch the others while their stomachs settle.

“To thank you on my behalf, I imagine,” Hannibal says.

“Not much chance to do so,” Will observes. Mrs. Komeda eventually starts sniffling, enveloping Murasaki in her arms as she coos and tells her dear friend just how much she will miss her lovely company, and she’ll visit often, won’t she? The remaining guests flutter around them to offer consolation, their attention drawn to the center of the room.

Will tears his gaze away from the scene to look at Hannibal, who watches his aunt with a sad sort of longing. The mixture of impatience and sorrow seeping off his skin is tangible, thick enough to taste in the air when Will breathes. The two haven’t exchanged a single word in front of him, Will realizes. He wants nothing more than to soothe the heartache being displayed in front of him. He's fighting that same protective desire that has plagued him over Hannibal since the very beginning.

He swirls the wine left in his glass, suddenly aware of the numbness in his fingers. He licks his lips and tilts his head in Hannibal’s direction, miscalculating and getting a little too close, but his voice is as quiet as he can make it. “Are you okay?”

It draws Hannibal out of his reverie, a trace of mild amusement altering his features, softening them. Will wants to flinch from the eye contact when it happens. It feels like baring himself, especially under Hannibal’s sharp scrutiny now, blown pupils dragging over Will’s face and through his hair and briefly over the rest of him, but finally coming to rest on his lips. Will knows that look. Would know it anywhere. Attempting to break the trance, Will pries the loosely held glass from Hannibal’s hand and swallows the rest of it. Hannibal doesn’t protest, only watches.

“I’m going to take that as a no,” Will mumbles nervously, hoping to give his flush time to disappear. “Or is that a yes?”

Hannibal simply observes his internal struggle, at ease. Will’s throat tightens as their thighs touch and he mentally kicks himself for sitting directly next to him, and not a chair away. He glued himself to Hannibal’s side all night, like a child unwilling to let go of his mother’s hand in unfamiliar territory. It had happened so naturally, and he doesn’t _mind_ , save for prying eyes that might seek to destroy his reputation. But in all honesty, he deserves it at this point.

And he doesn’t care, seeing an unusual gleam of gentle affection. If Hannibal realizes his fondness for Will is currently on display for all to see, he isn’t attempting to hide it. Ignoring the questions it might prompt in this less than private setting, he ducks his head to rest his cheek against Will’s shoulder. Will can smell the product in his hair, and he resists the impulse to press his mouth to it. His muscles seize and his heartrate soars, and he spares a glimpse around the room to be sure no one is seeing this.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” Will whispers. “Or do that.”

“Why?” Hannibal asks quietly, painfully innocent even as he very, very lightly brushes the pad of his finger over Will’s knuckle.

Will strives to think clearly, to use his psychiatrist voice when he speaks. “Because you can’t replace your aunt with me. It won’t satisfy you.”

“Will,” Hannibal chastises, and Will is grateful for the seclusion in their dimly lit corner of the living area. He swallows as their fingers appear to lace together all on their own, fitting perfectly. It feels as though a point has been made. The skin is soft and warm. “I will miss her.”

Will holds his breath. His chest hurts. “I know you will,” he says.

“I want _you._ ”

Hearing that lovely purr leaves him hanging by mere threads, barely holding back from kissing Hannibal in front of everyone. He wants to devour him. Hannibal notices this, and squeezes Will’s palm before leaning close to propose in his ear, the faint blow of his breath making Will quiver,

“If it makes you more comfortable, wait a few minutes before you come and find me.”

And then he’s gone, and Will is left to stare hungrily after his retreating figure.

He rubs helplessly at his blushing face, nearly knocking his glasses into the floor.

It’s funeral sex. It won’t mean anything.

It’s just the wine making him want this.

_I’m never going to fuck you._

Fuck.

Without checking to make sure the coast is clear he practically floats from the room, pulled forward like a seaman to a siren’s song. Consequences be damned, it’s the only noise in the world that he cares to hear. His feet are clumsy, affected by alcohol but not so much that he can’t think, can’t make the last minute decision to call this off. He presses against the wall not so much for balance as to feel grounded, finding his way to the bottom of a staircase. He tilts his head back to look up the mountain of it, at the darkness ahead and the temptation that lies beyond, waiting to be bedded.

Metaphorically, he would be climbing the rocks only to jump from the cliff, diving headfirst, committing professional suicide.

“Doctor Graham?”

Brought back to harsh reality, dread brewing in his stomach, he forces himself to face Lady Murasaki. “Yes, ma’am?” he says, unable to keep the drawl from his voice, but by some miracle managing to remain upright. He’s been caught. His instincts scream for him to flee.

She takes his arm, and he’s amazed to find her smiling. “I wanted to thank you.”

The words hurt. “I’m…I’m afraid I _really_ don’t know what for,” he tells her honestly, the guilt dripping off him like rain.

“For taking care of his mess.”

His eyes widen and hers soften in reassurance, much to his confusion.

“I know,” she tells him, petting his shoulder like she might hush a frightened animal. “My sweet cub told me everything.”

He could be asleep. Maybe he’s sleepwalking, standing dumb in the middle of the road, about to be hit by an oncoming truck. And he will wake, if he is so lucky.

He isn’t.

“I’m forever grateful for what you did for him in my absence.”

He can only nod and listen to the entire world crashing down over his head.

“It doesn’t seem to bother you.” His voice is severed from himself, once more in this house.

Murasaki smiles sadly. “It appears to run in the family.”

“I…I don’t know what to do with that statement.”

“I know you care for my nephew.” She shakes her head at the distress that must be melting his face. “No, I am not angry with you. You have a way with him. He admires you, he respects you. I am relieved that he has you. He needs you. However, I am not equipped to deal with this situation.”

It’s sloppily coming together. Will is overcome with disgust, despite understanding her reasons. “You’re leaving because you’re afraid. You’ve lied to him.”

“Remaining here with him is a risk I cannot take, as much as I love him,” she explains honestly. “And I love him with all my heart. Loved him,” she corrects, with visible pain. “My husband thought we could give him a chance at a normal life, but I see now I could no more prevent this from happening than his parents could stop his sister.”

“His…” Will trails off, at a loss. _Sister?_

Murasaki seems to deflate. “He never discussed Mischa with you.”

“No. I didn’t know he had a sister. Is she…dead?”

“I do not know.”

Will manages to detach himself from Murasaki’s grasp, peeling away from her as respectfully as he can. “You don’t know where his sister is?”

At last she temporarily averts her eyes.

“For Hannibal’s sake, my husband and I stopped looking for her long ago. It was best for all of us to assume she is dead, and the easiest way to help my traumatized nephew. When he came to us he was only eight and he did not speak a word to me until he was twelve. Doctor, I wanted to let him tell you on his own in therapy, until what took place in my kitchen three weeks ago. It has opened my eyes.”

She lifts her gaze.

“Hannibal and Mischa share the same capacity for cruelty.”

 

* * *

 

On the drunken drive home, he wants to say he has dodged a bullet, but it doesn’t feel like it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (to clarify: mischa is the older sibling in this au)
> 
> the night isn't over.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big thank you to [EmilyElm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilyElm/pseuds/EmilyElm) for being my cheerleader and helping me overcome my writer’s block, and this one’s for [Severus_divides_into_H ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Severus_divides_into_H/pseuds/Severus_divides_into_H) especially, enjoy!

“You’re leaving because you’re afraid. You’ve lied to him.”

“Remaining here with him is a risk I cannot take, as much as I love him. And I love him with all my heart. Loved him.”

Hannibal is not especially susceptible to breaking his possessions, to throwing fits and sulking like a spoiled brat, but the raw anger twisting inside him now gives him pause as he weighs his options and considers destroying everything within his reach.

He’s unprepared for the range of emotions that run him over, rendering him weak in the knees and inciting a small flame of panic that he is quick to extinguish before he can do something drastic. The control that usually comes so easily threatens to evade him. His lack of it takes him by surprise and conjures up the memory of Francis in his kitchen floor, gurgling and bleeding out. Hannibal was in full control then, albeit irritated, whatever Will might think of it. But now, he’s wavering on the border of losing that control, with a cold fury like no other humming in his blood.

Backing away from the balcony, he watches Lady Murasaki and Will’s talking forms vanish as he retreats into the safe, shaded oblivion of his room. He stands in the center, dark eyes narrowed at the doorway that remains empty even as the minutes tick by. Disappointment settles over his skin and turns his body into ice.

“They’ll both leave you,” Francis says from the window. He’s very much dead, undeterred by the knives and other various utensils burrowed deep within his flesh that gleam in the moonlight. “No one wants you. They fear your power, as they should.”

His voice is lacking in emotion, low and unassuming.

“ _See how they run_ ,” he whispers.

After a moment he returns his attention to the rain, absorbed by the soft pitter patter against the glass. Something scaled and rough slides against the floor, like the agitated twitch of a cat’s tail.

Hannibal ignores the taunt, fixing his eyes straight ahead, and the two leave it at that. It would be foolish to argue with a figment of his imagination, especially when Francis is right. _I don’t want them to run_ , he thinks. _I don’t want Will to run._

He might as well be one of Will’s loyal mutts, pitifully waiting for his master to walk through the door. Has he truly stooped to this level, where he requires a caretaker to feel secure in his very existence? Or has it always been like this? His exploits were counterproductive, then. Not just entertainment to pass the time, but building blocks for his ego. Just so someone capable could stumble along and tear it down in one fell swoop.

“ _Hannibal._ ”

Lady Murasaki comes into focus, smelling of flowers and the stale chemical scent of the furs wound around her throat. Her usual strength is missing, replaced with a fragility that causes her to shrink inside her evening gown. It doesn’t suit her. The darkness in the room nearly swallows her, aside from the uncharacteristic paleness of her face. A sharp stench of fear cuts through the few yards remaining between them and the sudden tightness in his chest is unwelcome.

“You have been standing there for several minutes,” Lady Murasaki tells him softly.

He finally remembers to blink. “Did Will leave?”

“Yes.” His fingers must twitch, because she continues a little hurriedly, “He needs time, my love. Have patience. He will not abandon you.”

He dips his head inquiringly. “But _you_ will.”

His words confirm her suspicion that he knows what was said. Her wince is minimal, nearly imperceptible, if he wasn’t studying her with such urgency, latching onto anything that crosses her face. “You understand my reasons, Hannibal, I know that you do. Doctor Graham simply isn’t as wise as I am, or perhaps he is stronger for it. But you understand.”

“I would never hurt you,” he says, taking a step forward. When she retreats, a dangerous resentment sinks into his bones. He plants his feet on the floor, hands at his sides, and wills for his muscles to relax, not revealing any of the tension he’s feeling. “I’m not Mischa.”

“Who could have predicted her?” Lady Murasaki sighs. “How can I predict you?”

“I killed in self-defense.”

“Hannibal,” she breathes, in that same scornful tone she occasionally took with him when he was young, and he just barely catches himself as his shoulders instinctively hunch in the well-trained, self-imposed embarrassment he adopted as a boy, only to please her.

“We cannot have everything we desire, love.”

It’s said with such certainty it makes him sick.

As if to prove her point, she comes forward. Her fear is melting away, replaced by familial fondness and the smallest dose of regret that gives him a taste of hope. Her open palm is warm against his face, her fingers brushing over his lips as she frantically searches his eyes for something she never finds. Even so, her tongue darts out to wet her mouth, and her already beautiful eyes become soft and kind. And pitying.

Her intention is clear.

Hannibal turns his head and her kiss falls flat against his cheek, tentative and mostly unwilling, as expected. He scrapes his tongue with his teeth, heavily considering biting down to bleed out the hysteria that causes the tremor in his hands, now fists. “Is this meant to be your parting gift?”

His tone is remarkably venomous. Lady Murasaki’s hold on him lowers to the side of his neck, her grasp gradually loosening until she drops her arm entirely. “I’m sorry, darling.”

Very carefully, he takes her shoulders and nudges her aside so he can exit the room.

“Hannibal—”

“I don’t want pity. You’ve made your choice, allow me to respect it. Goodbye, my lady.”

The asthmatic feeling he gets when he walks away, knowing that their companionship is over, is painful.

Nothing is outwardly wrong with him, he knows, but he’s inhaling and choking on gulps of water instead of oxygen. His lungs fill up and weigh him down, dragging him under to drown in an agony that is worse than physical, a profound sort of pain too difficult to block out. The discovery that he can _feel_ pain to this extent is fascinating, but even his curiosity isn’t enough to soothe the misery.

His eyes feel strangely wet, and not from the rain outside.

_Not your little cub anymore, am I, now that you’re suddenly aware I have teeth._

_I should show you._

 

* * *

 

Passing every single rundown liquor store lighting up his way home, Will grips the steering wheel a little harder and chokes back the urge to pull over. By the time he pulls into his driveway, his fingers ache and he pets his dogs sparingly as he enters the house. The alcohol in his system has mostly run its course and he feels no real need to replace it aside from wanting to use it as a buffer between himself and the current situation. _What else is new?_

He’d left before Murasaki could say much more, preferring to hear it from Hannibal’s own mouth or not at all, and leaning more toward the latter. His brain felt swollen and feverish and his flight response won out, bringing him all the way home before he could stop and reconsider his chosen course of action.

After distracting his nosy dogs with the promise of dinner he yanks off his tie and shrugs out of his jacket, the outer pieces of clothing falling to the floor as he leaves the kitchen. He collapses on the bed and toes off his shoes, stretching out on his back and sighing as his spine shifts into place where it should have been all night. The repetitive sound of collar tags clinking against tin bowls and the rain beating down on his roof isn’t enough to rescue him from the renewed sense of anxiety this small lull in activity invites.

_‘Hannibal and Mischa share the same capacity for cruelty.’_

The limited knowledge he has of Mischa is just that; limited, and it would be best to forget it (not that he will). Hannibal will either fill in the blanks or he won’t, but whatever traumatized him as a child is his to share, and that probably won’t happen. Will suspects knowing his history might be helpful where therapy is concerned, and of course he’s tried to draw it out of him before, long before all of this, but the boy is so fucking _complicated_ as it is and their relationship is so entirely out of his control that it most likely won’t make a lick of difference anymore.

But that Hannibal had been blind enough to trust his aunt with the ugly details of that night with Francis, endangering his freedom and Will’s, that isn’t so easy to let go.

And yet Will resents Murasaki more, who chose to remove herself from his life rather than turn him in—which is an admirable and loyal decision, to a degree—because he cannot fathom how Hannibal would take it if he knew. He isn’t in love with her, no, but she has been a mother to him for over a decade, clinging to him as closely as he has to her, using him as a replacement for her husband while she takes on the role of mother, father, and sister. She will be missing the next time he tries to contact her, and for the foreseeable future. The boy has already lost his parents and sibling, and his uncle—who else does he have left?

Just Will, who ran away without a single word.

He throws his glasses on the bedside table, digging into his pockets for his phone. While he contemplates what he could possibly say to make up for his sudden disappearance and outright rejection, his dogs sound the alarm and bright headlights shine through the downpour and filter through his windows.

Will rolls off the bed and scrambles to his feet, knowing it could only be him. His dogs bark at the front door and by the time he gets past them and knocks it open Hannibal is standing on the porch, dressed from earlier but drenched to the bone. Will stumbles over Buster and walks outside, shutting the door behind him, and freezes when he sees Hannibal’s face.

His eyes are puffy and he looks thoroughly frustrated about it, ashamed even, hands curled into fists and his chest heaving as he asks, “Do you fear me as well?”

The obvious hurt in his voice, all but breaking, leaves Will speechless.

“Is that it?” Hannibal asks, looking slightly deranged. If it were anyone else, Will would wonder for his own safety, but all he’s worried about is Hannibal. His mouth won’t work.

“I thought you understood.”

The words are real this time, no manipulation involved. No need to hide a body.

“Is it so terrible for you to connect with someone? We’re the same, you and I. Why can’t you accept it?” Hannibal stares at him, seemingly unaware of the tear rolling down his cheek. His outrage is misguided, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out none of this is aimed at Will. Hannibal is unraveling because he knows Murasaki is leaving him, and in his mind, Will might follow her example.

Will reaches out and pulls him in against his chest. He holds tight as Hannibal resists, trying to shove him away, but all too soon he sags in Will’s arms and buries his face into Will’s neck in defeat. He’s hot, almost feverish, but he’s shivering too. Will holds him even tighter, relieved when Hannibal squeezes him back, fingers digging into flesh hard enough to bruise but not maliciously. If Will pulled away now his shirt would undoubtedly rip, telling by Hannibal’s death grip. He finds that he’s quite happy to just hug him. Certainly not for the first time, he wishes he could shut off his empathy, wanting to ignore the overwhelming, writhing mess of feelings that seep out of them both. Like the jumbled scribbles of a toddler, it’s all nonsense and confusion.

“Hey, no,” he says, resting his chin atop Hannibal’s head. “No, I’m not afraid of you. I’m not. You’ll have to do a lot worse than that, okay? I’ve been stabbed, I’ve even had a gun pointed at my head. I’ve met some really damaged people but you don’t scare me. No way. You hear me?” Will drops his shoulders at the inadvertent sniff he gets in response. He can _feel_ how much Hannibal hates himself for being so vulnerable. “C’mon, let’s go inside,” he coaxes, finally registering the high-pitched whining of his dogs behind him and the chilly drip of rain soaking through his shirt. Even as it reaches his skin, he feels warm. Will ushers him through the door with a hand pressed to the small of his back, lingering a bit longer than it should.

He scolds his dogs for crowding and poking rudely with their noses, but Dante is the one who absolutely loses his mind; the puppy whirls around in circles in his excitement and rolls onto his back at Hannibal’s feet, wagging his tail and whining and barking so loudly that if Will had neighbors they might easily mistake the sounds for a murder in progress. Hannibal watches the puppy’s display with delayed interest and doesn’t seem to know how to react to such a pure, happy greeting. Will can’t help but smile. It reminds him of why he’s always preferred the company of dogs.

“You must have made quite an impression on him before you brought him here,” Will offers, happy to see something on Hannibal’s face that isn’t total despair.

Hannibal says nothing, but he crouches and holds Dante’s head in his hands and the puppy makes even more noise at the contact, wiggling and scaring away the other dogs with his enthusiasm. Will crosses the room and digs through his drawers for dry clothes, an unwanted twinge in his gut reminding him that Hannibal will probably turn his nose up at it, but he can’t not make the offer. He’s pleasantly surprised when Hannibal simply takes what Will hands over. Though he avoids Will’s eyes, Hannibal thanks him politely, and waits rather awkwardly until Will jerks to attention and directs him to the nearest bathroom. They move around each other clumsily, both unwilling to discuss what happened with Lady Murasaki.

For a moment Will fears for Murasaki’s safety, but that moment passes. He hadn’t found any trace of blood on Hannibal and he decides to take the rest on faith. If she’s as wise as he thinks, she will disappear soon, all the same. Hannibal emerging from the hallway dressed in Will’s clothes, overlarge in some areas and tight in others, and completely out of character, wipes away whatever he was thinking of before.

What Will wouldn’t give to see more of this. “I shouldn’t have left like that,” he blurts at last. “Not without letting you know first. I’m sorry, Hannibal.” _In all fairness, if I had gone to tell you, I probably wouldn’t have left in the first place._

Hannibal inspects the fabric of his shirt, pretending not to hear Will’s apology. He’s had plenty of time to compose himself but he still hasn’t managed it. His nervous energy is infectious and Will doesn’t know how to respond. It’s been three weeks since he dealt with Hannibal like this, and though it was difficult enough the first time he hadn’t been crying then. That’s probably telling, but Will isn’t going to jump into it now. He’ll give Hannibal time to recover first before he turns this into a therapy session.

“It smells like you,” Hannibal says out of nowhere.  

Well, at least he spoke.

“And what do I smell like?” Will asks.

“Dogs and trees, mostly. After the weekends you often smell like fish.”

It sounds fine to Will, but in actuality it’s more than likely pretty bad. He frowns and inches toward the kitchen. “Coffee?” he offers, feeling rather helpless.

“No, Will,” Hannibal says quietly. “But thank you.”

“I’ll just pour myself some.”

Will distracts himself with moving around in his kitchen, a little needlessly, and he relaxes somewhat at the gentle scrape of a chair being dragged across tile. He glances over his shoulder and spies Hannibal sitting at the small table, hands in his lap until the dogs of course come rushing over to lick at his fingers. He wrinkles his nose in distaste but he doesn’t withdraw his hands, he lets them smell him. When Will takes his seat across from him, Hannibal has hauled Dante into his lap and the puppy smiles, all pointed teeth and lolling tongue and practically smug as the other dogs settle in disappointment on the floor.

“I want to kill the man who drugged me.”

Will peers over the top of his steaming coffee mug. Exasperation, rather than surprise, is his immediate reaction. He tries to hide it. “Don’t entertain those thoughts. Put them on hold, we can discuss them when you’re feeling more stable.”

It won’t be much of a discussion; Will doesn’t know how he’ll stop him, but he’ll find a way. He won’t take no for an answer. A part of him doesn’t take the threat seriously, doesn’t want to accept that Hannibal is a very real danger to society. He’s the equivalent of an unpredictable dog that has already bitten someone. Will’s dealt with dogs like that, and the public’s most popular option on how to handle them is euthanasia. Desperate to leave that line of thinking behind, he reminds himself once more that an orphan is not a stray, and certainly not _his_ stray. Will wishes he’d started drilling him about Murasaki or even Mischa, wishes he set the conversation on a course he could have kept up with. But Hannibal isn’t ready for it, and he won’t push him.

“I’m stable now,” Hannibal says, appearing somewhat mesmerized by the texture of his puppy’s soft fur. Dante tries to lick his face.

“You are emotional,” Will counters. He takes a long drink and when he sets the mug down Hannibal is glowering at him. It would be intimidating if he didn’t look so drained and exhausted. “Understandably so. You want an outlet. Don’t make any decisions.” _Not now_ , he wants to add at the curl of Hannibal’s lip, but it’s only done half-heartedly. On some level, Hannibal knows Will is right. Will continues, encouraged. “Sleep. In the morning we can talk about whatever you want but right now you look like you’re going to fall over. Just take it easy for once, okay? For me, if not for yourself. I’m too tired to worry about you right now. You can have the bed,” he says, jerking his head in the direction of the front room.

Hannibal follows his line of sight and his objection is clear with his frown. “Where will you sleep?”

“In the chair, I guess. Don’t protest—I do it regularly anyway. Or I used to, heavy drinking and all.”

He almost expects the playful invitation, _We could share./Feel free to join me._ But Hannibal only gives him a reluctant nod and is promptly distracted by Dante’s sharp teeth. Will sees this honest side of him, here now in front of him, not because Hannibal trusts him with it but because the curtain he always hides behind is temporarily in shreds. It will repair itself in time, perhaps even by tomorrow. Will wonders if he will miss the honesty. He’s seen traces of it before, but it might have been planned. With Hannibal, everything is his idea.

After a while he runs out of coffee it becomes apparent to Will that Hannibal doesn’t want to be alone. He hasn’t made to move, and he spends his time listening to the rain and watching Will drink when he thinks Will isn’t looking. Will _really_ doesn’t want Hannibal to use him as a replacement for his aunt, for his own good and also for Will’s more selfish reasons. But he can’t deny the sick pleasure he gets knowing Hannibal is dependent on him. It’s a welcome change, especially after all the worrying Will has been doing over him. God, is he so pathetic that this makes up for him not being wanted? Guilt makes him clear his throat and lift his eyes.

“It’s getting late. Storm’s not fully here yet, we’d better fall asleep before it hits.”

 

* * *

 

The coffee was a mistake. It gave him something to do with his hands and mouth at the time. Now he fidgets when he should be sleeping. His heart beats rapidly, but that could be the knowledge that he’s sleeping in the same room as the patient he’s been so infatuated with since day one. He shifts uncomfortably in the recliner, cursing at the loud creaks his movements make, keeping one eye on Hannibal’s ‘sleeping’ form. Will doubts he’s actually asleep. His distress wouldn’t be that easy to shake, no matter how tired he felt, and he might be equally uncomfortable with sleeping in Will’s bed.

(A few days ago he would have been triumphant.)

Will wonders what Hannibal is thinking and passes the time studying the slow rise and fall of his breath. It’s not yet relaxed enough to convince him that Hannibal isn’t still awake and on high alert. Hannibal trusts him, he wouldn’t be here otherwise. But he’s hurt and Will can feel it. It makes his skin crawl and he feels unreasonably angry because of it. He flinches due to the lightning that fills the room, chased away by a distant but promising rumble in the sky. If he doesn’t fall sleep soon, he’ll spend the rest of the night listening to the storm as it finishes rolling through the area. 

“We can switch places if you like.”

Hannibal’s voice startles him almost as badly as the lightning did. It takes him a moment to recover, in which Hannibal takes his chance to continue, sounding exasperated, “One of us might as well get some sleep.”  

Will rolls his eyes in the dark. “I’m not going to make you sleep in the chair. I’m not sleeping anyway. Too much coffee,” he lies, having determined earlier that the coffee has very little to do with his jumpiness. He wishes he had something to do, popping his fingers out of habit until he realizes he’s making quite a bit of noise. He settles back into the recliner and closes his eyes. If this continues for another hour, he’ll give in and move upstairs and put himself to work. Quietly.

“We could share.”

His eyes pop open, but he’s more shocked by the hesitance in Hannibal’s tone than the suggestion itself. It’s said so sincerely, like he fully expects Will to say no, but he voiced his thoughts just in case—and immediately regrets doing so.

Too desperate for sleep to summon the effort it would take to deny it, and pointedly ignoring the stirring excitement in his gut, Will abandons his chair and approaches the bed. Another flash of lightning reveals Hannibal turning his back on Will, nonchalant save for the tiniest hint of tension in his muscles. Will stretches out on one side of the bed and leaves a fair amount of space between them. He knows the risk he’s taking. He knows what could happen tonight, should his self-control slip even a little bit, and so does Hannibal, but they’re too polite to say it aloud.

In all honesty, he doesn’t think Hannibal is playing games right now. 

“I have nightmares sometimes,” Will warns, also facing the opposite direction.

“I do as well,” Hannibal replies, but his voice is faint.

Will’s limbs grow heavier as he sinks further into the mattress, and despite being completely on edge, his eyes soon fall closed.

He’s falling into black depths, sinking yet he feels weightless, and it’s a peaceful feeling. A white beam of light cuts across the darkness, tearing through the shadows and it grows brighter and brighter, blinding him until the world suddenly rattles around him in a quake and a loud noise pulls him from sleep, jolting him wide awake just in time to hear the roaring thunder that shakes his house. He’s been dreaming for at least an hour and the storm is in full force. His dogs whine in their beds. He takes a deep breath, remembering where he is, and eventually, who he’s with.

He rolls over to see Hannibal sitting straight up and looking much more startled than Will was, blinking at one of the windows. Moment by moment he pieces himself back together and Will watches openly, addled by sleep and stupid enough to crawl closer and place his hand on Hannibal’s chest. His heart stutters chaotically like Will’s, the beats almost in tandem. Hannibal snaps out of whatever terrified thought was holding him, pupils blown wide and searching frantically until they land on Will, questioning without asking.

“Do you know where you are?” Will asks sleepily, hoping his mumble is translatable. He can barely hear himself over the booming skies and the heavy rain. Hannibal nods once. He doesn’t budge. Will can see his memory of the night returning to him, and the slightest sliver of pain before it disappears, buried down underneath even more unsorted emotions.

Will splays his fingers, urging him to lie down. “It’s just us. You’re okay, breathe.”

Hannibal doesn’t bristle at the touch, simply giving it some thought before he decides to comply. Will doesn’t remove his hand. He pays attention to the beat of Hannibal’s heart and frowns when he realizes it isn’t slowing down as fast as he’d like. Hannibal knocks him away without a word and tries to turn his back on him, but Will grabs his arm to stop him. They don't speak, Hannibal’s murky gaze deceivingly blank until he finally responds to Will’s insistence by cozying up against his side, going as far as nuzzling him underneath the crook of his outstretched arm. Will exhales sharply, lungs aching, everything aching. He feels Hannibal flinch when lightning strikes eerily close to the house. The hurried click of claws on the floor tells him his dogs have decided to retreat from the windows. 

“I was furious with her,” Hannibal says, his breath tickling Will’s skin. “I wondered what killing her might be like, if it would feel any different. If I would regret it.”  

Will absently gathers a head full of hair in his fingers. When Hannibal doesn’t object, he allows himself to stroke the silken tufts. “You didn’t kill her,” he says.

Hannibal turns his flushed face into Will’s palm. “But I entertained the thought. I didn’t expect it to be so easy.”

Impulsively, Will leans over to kiss the top of his head. He only meant to reassure. For a moment, nothing else happens, but Hannibal’s heat and proximity implores him to try again, his lips meeting flesh this time, landing on a warm forehead. His brain releases a cautionary warning that he blatantly ignores, feeling Hannibal twist to meet him. They touch noses and exchange short but quiet breaths together, only hovering. Will bumps his head against Hannibal’s and their lips find each other in an almost accidental way, dry and discreet before they kiss a second time, and the third time’s the charm. Hannibal opens his mouth and Will seizes his chance to explore in a clash of tongue and teeth.

Nothing and no one is here to interrupt or distract them. The need to protect Hannibal from Will’s own poor judgment, and Hannibal’s insatiable, youthful lust, makes him panic and draw away from another fierce kiss with a wet _smack._

“God. Fuck me, I’m sorry,” Will splutters, scrambling to apologize. He cuts himself off when Hannibal tangles a leg with one of his, possessively, or perhaps desperately. It stops him from leaving. He can plainly see the flare of fear in Hannibal’s eyes. His mask of indifference is fragmented, pieces scattered.

Hannibal clutches at the front of Will’s shirt before speaking.

“Stay with me.” The plea is just above a whisper. “I’ll stop.”

Will’s heart throbs. “You weren’t doing anything wrong.”

 _For once_ , he adds silently, and they must have the same thought because they both share a weak smile.  

It takes no more than five seconds for Will to kiss him again, shifting to cover Hannibal’s body with his own.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you listen very closely you can hear frederick wailing in the distance and stuffing his face with ben & jerry’s


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's shorter than usual, but what's coming next requires its own separate chapter.

For Will, sex has never been of any real importance; it’s messy, it’s confusing, and most of what he feels during the act originates from his partner. He latches onto the emotions, feeding off them rather than drawing from his own arousal, which makes his empathy disorder sound only slightly creepier than it really is. In short, sex is overwhelming and generally unenjoyable for him, and he doesn’t particularly like it. But with Hannibal, as with everything regarding him, it’s different. His desire is more subtle somehow, leaving ample room for Will to explore his feelings without the pressure of identifying and reciprocating whatever his partner puts out.

And he’s so temptingly warm.

Thunder rattles the house and it’s welcome noise, something to cover the sound of Will’s unsteady breathing and mask his excitement. This isn’t _about_ Will, although his toes practically curl from the shared fondness and yearning as they trade increasingly urgent kisses. He pins Hannibal down in the middle of the bed. The kisses are without restraint, almost sloppy, a product of long-suffered loneliness and desperation from both ends. Hannibal’s fingers grasp at Will’s clothes, not daring to undress him, only touching. Undecided, frustrated, kneading and finally returning to his face, caressing the skin and stubble and pulling him down so that their mouths can meet one more time in a rush of nerves and heat. Will runs his tongue over charmingly pointed teeth, hissing when Hannibal bites down, hard. It hurts like hell. He sucks against Will’s bleeding tongue, attentive, swallowing every drop of blood that seeps from the cut and Will can’t hold himself back; he groans into Hannibal’s mouth and frees his hands from their grip in Hannibal’s hair to touch the boy’s broad chest and slighter middle, pleased with the little spasms his touch elicits, wherever it goes. His palms come to rest at Hannibal’s hips and he puts his weight down to keep him in place, getting a knee between Hannibal’s thighs for good measure.

Isn’t this where he at least _pretends_ to draw the line? Why can’t he summon the words? “God, you,” Will finally chokes out.

He’s surprised at how quickly Hannibal goes from pliant to absolutely, deadly still, not even breathing. His pride was already hurt before, and Will’s constant warring with himself over his lack of self-control only makes it worse. For once Hannibal doesn’t seem to have the energy to fight with him about it, would rather accept it and leave while he still has some dignity left. Will can see it in his eyes. In a way Hannibal already laid himself bare, made himself vulnerable simply by appearing on Will’s doorstep, dripping wet and resembling a kicked puppy left out in the rain. He stares at Will, waiting for him to continue with his usual lecture; _‘It’s wrong, I can’t do this, I’m your psychiatrist, you’re barely an adult.’_

He doesn’t realize Will currently doesn’t have the patience required for a conscience.

Averting his gaze, Hannibal tries to rise, but Will pushes him back down.

“No,” is all he says.

He pulls Hannibal’s shirt over his head. Looking bewildered, Hannibal lets him do it. Will fights briefly with the fabric, tossing it in a corner before he lowers himself to fasten his teeth, gently, to Hannibal’s exposed throat. He kisses and bruises, quickly getting carried away by the sharp inhale beneath him. Will licks at warm skin and travels downward, to a soft belly—and his heart stops.

Scar tissue. Faded in color. Small, easy to miss. He presses his lips to the skin with a sort of reverence, memorizing the ridges against his mouth, before the sinking feeling makes him lift his head. He already knows. “What happened?”

Hannibal appears thoughtful, and bless him, he doesn’t push Will away. “My sister.”

Try as Will might, he can’t detect hurt in his voice. Just something weathered by the years passed, purposefully detached, or by force of habit.

_She killed your parents. You watched them die. She tried to kill you. You were eight years old._

_No. If she wanted you dead, you’d be dead._

_She left you behind. Did you cry out for her while you bled? Did the physical pain even bother you, compared to the agony you felt when she wouldn’t look back at you, not even to say goodbye?_

Robert Lecter must have done his damnedest to bury that tragedy, regardless of whether it was for his own sake or his nephew’s. Will wouldn’t have known, no matter how much digging he did through therapy or more unconventional research. He only knows what Hannibal allows him to know.

Hannibal watches him expectantly, prepared to answer Will’s many questions. Questions Will finds he doesn’t care about. It might be foolish, it might be completely irresponsible, but he can’t bring himself to ask yet. It can wait.

He wants to chase the suspicion from those dark eyes, take away the almost imperceptible flinch whenever lightning strikes too close, distract him so well he doesn’t even notice the storm or the sting of tonight’s rejection, hold him close and make him feel like he’s home. And, selfishly, Will wants what he’s been so unfairly denied. He wants comfort. Pure contentment, not the knockoff, cheap satisfaction that usually follows the rushed, sticky encounter he feels no need to repeat. The real thing. What does that feel like? He wonders if he’ll feel special to Hannibal at all, if he’s not just wishing on stars, if there _is_ something here worth pursuing. There has to be.

There’s only one way to find out, and he can’t even be sure.

Will rubs his scruffy cheek against the scar and Hannibal snatches the older man by his curls in response, dragging him up into a kiss. Will tastes a trace of the wine they had tonight, and blood. His shirt comes free and it rips in a couple of places in their haste to get rid of it, dropped carelessly to the floor where one of his beloved mutts will most likely sleep and chew on it overnight, if it isn’t already ruined beyond repair. He’s startled, initially, by the shock of naked skin touching his. He can’t stop looking down between their bodies, half convinced he’s dreaming. The draft inside the house encourages them press close but innocent under the sheets, until Will feels thighs cage his waist, demanding more. He rolls his hips into the invitation without a second thought. Suddenly his pants feel like both a hindrance and too thin, doing little to relieve or deter the hardness digging into his hip while his own arousal begins to swell in answer.

The catch in Hannibal’s breath is music to Will’s ears, sweeter than the sound of a running stream on the edge of a forest, crashing over smooth rocks and through the ravine. He’d like to take Hannibal fishing, he thinks, but he’s distracted from such domestic (and frankly, lame) thoughts when his boy arches his spine beautifully, asking for him. Their slow rhythm builds until clever fingers search out the edge of Will’s pants, tugging forcefully until Will relents and kicks them off, heart pounding as he returns the favor.

He’s more than happy to take a moment and sit back, ignoring Hannibal’s mild protests as he runs his palms up and down the spread thighs on either side of him, enjoying the feel and soaking up the sight of Hannibal unclothed. Hannibal might be leaner, but his muscles are more pronounced, shaped from dedication. His face is flushed and his hair tousled from fitful sleep, blood colored eyes wide and shadowed black in the darkness, pupils blown large with anticipation. He’s open, unashamed of his nakedness or the evidence of his desire. If anything, his vulnerability now comes only from the unmistakable longing in his expression, and in every thrilled, slight tremble of excitement. Will realizes he’s shaking, too.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” he finds himself admitting. He’s gone a long time without sex, hardly ever seeking it out, he doesn’t even have the most basic necessities in stock. But he’s well aware he isn’t withholding for safety reasons. He has a bad feeling that under different circumstances he would ignore precaution, unable to say no. Deep down, he knows it’s just a selfish ploy to keep Hannibal around, to not let himself be used as Hannibal has used the others before him. And there is another reason, perhaps most important. He still wants this to be about what Hannibal wants. The boy might be an egotistical bastard, but he’s taken advantage of just as often as he manipulates, whether he realizes it or not. Will wants to give him this much, as pointless and unacknowledged as it will be. “But I’m going to take care of you,” he finishes.

Without waiting to address Hannibal’s sulking at the news, Will stretches out his arm and presses the pads of two fingers to the boy’s mouth. Realization sets into Hannibal’s features and he parts his lips. His face reddens at the intrusion and its implications but he’s mostly obedient, and doubly curious, sucking delicately against Will’s digits. Teeth graze skin but never bite. Will barely refrains from making a hopeless noise when Hannibal’s wet tongue licks more on the suggestive side, coating fingers in saliva as his eyes drift closed and his pleased expression can be easily misconstrued as _savoring_ them. His hands wrap possessively around Will’s wrist. The hum of delight vibrating around Will’s fingertips is too much and he pulls away, murmuring ‘ _that’s fine’_ under his breath while his lungs feel shriveled and empty inside his chest.

“On your stomach.”

He ignores the hungry look Hannibal throws his way. He waits until Hannibal settles, like he asked, gripping at a pillow as Will shoves his legs apart and seats himself between them, using his knees to prop the boy’s thighs higher. Will finds himself instantly rooted to the spot, fascinated by the lovely view this provides. As the seconds pass he inches closer, and his appreciation evolves into greed. His cock is fully erect as their bodies fit together snug, temptingly so. He smooths his palm over Hannibal’s lower back, waiting for him to relax his weight into the bed and into Will’s lap before he makes his first move. He drags his fingers across the swell of the boy’s ass, breathing out heavily as he does so; he’s always wanted to touch there, parting cheeks as his previously slicked fingers circle at the entrance.

He thinks he hears Hannibal curse, but it isn’t English. Storing this information away, Will continues rubbing skin without pressing inside, only giving when he feels Hannibal squirming for it despite falling silent. Will allows one finger, one inch, massaging and carefully stretching tight inner walls as Hannibal visibly struggles to remain motionless. And quiet. Will wonders just how long he’s wanted this, with all the stalking and playing between them, the less-than-harmless plans gone awry, and now with no one else to turn to. Will teases at him until he detects a muffled word and halts all movement, determined to hear it for what it is. He can’t resist.

“What?” he asks, feigning ignorance.

“I said, more,” Hannibal says. He’s talking into the pillow.

That won’t do.

“More what?”

Hannibal speaks with great reluctance, suddenly sheepish. “Please.”

Will is taken aback by the need in his voice, how it almost breaks under the weight of it. Collecting himself, Will shakes off the overwhelming urge to go back on his word. He lays a reassuring hand on Hannibal’s spine and sinks his finger in deeper, a second testing the water, and Hannibal’s relieved sigh is answer enough for him to continue. It’s been ages since he’s done anything like this, and he’s only tried it on himself. He curves his fingers, seeking—and finding. The low moan that escapes past Hannibal’s lips makes Will lightheaded with want. He works him open, brushing over that sweet spot sparingly, but consistent. His cock nudges soft flesh and drips helplessly onto heated skin, mostly untouched. He refuses to, as much as it pains him, instead directing his efforts to pleasing his young lover instead, whose short thrusts against the mattress don’t go unnoticed. Will licks his lips and leans over him, placing kisses to the back of Hannibal’s neck and shoulders while he finds some of his own relief in the friction that follows. He wraps an arm around Hannibal’s waist, holding him closer.

“Should I touch you?” Will asks, throat scratchy. “Do you want me to, or can you come like this?”

“No, don’t,” Hannibal breathes, sounding less and less like himself, or the self that Will knows, his fingers knotting the sheets. “I want you inside me.”

It’s almost a direct order, the way he says it. He isn’t often told _no._ “I know. Can’t,” Will bites out, sharing Hannibal’s frustration. “Let me take care of you.”

“Please, Will.”

He withdraws, much to the boy’s displeasure. He repositions them hastily, resting on his side while Hannibal lies in front of him in a similar fashion. Not wanting to waste the time arguing about technicalities, Will spits into his hand and reaches down to smear it between Hannibal’s thighs for lubrication. He spares a few seconds to stroke himself back to full attention, which doesn’t take much. He uses the weight of his leg to keep Hannibal’s pressed together, reinserting his fingers at the same time he thrusts between taut muscle and lovely, cushioned flesh. A compromise, and more than good enough. He isn’t going to last, but neither is Hannibal, not with Will hitting his prostate and rutting against him with increasing abandon.

All that pressure, the inferno of raw emotion Will’s been fighting for so long, it melts his skin and turns his blood to fire. He smells smoke and fucks into tight, wet heat, burying his face into Hannibal’s throat as they move together. There is nothing but this, and the sound of shared, rasping breaths and growling skies over the property. Will kisses damp skin and curls his fingers, savoring the awed gasp of his name and the hard clench around him, around his fingers and his cock. Muscles go rigid, the action screaming: almost, almost. His chin digging into the hard bone of a shoulder, Will watches Hannibal come, listening to the small cry he makes and feeling him quiver. It’s the first time Will is seeing this. Weeks ago, drunk and inside his office, he lost that privilege, the wonderful memory of it wiped from his brain thanks to the stupid amount of alcohol in his system. He witnesses the whole thing now, unhindered. His vision blurs so he shuts his eyes and thrusts faster, rougher, until his hips stutter and he sees stars behind his eyelids, paired with the erratic flashes of light pouring into the room.

He’s left speechless and aching, unwilling to leave the lingering waves of bliss behind, or the safety this quiet moment provides. The thick layer of sweat on his skin grows cold. His heart seems determined to break free of his chest, and yet it also sinks. The storm is over. _What now?_

Hannibal shifts and Will releases him, almost flinching at how quickly he peels away, as if he can’t wait to leave. But Hannibal doesn’t leave, he only turns around and holds Will’s face in his hands. His fingers are careful, tracing his features while dark eyes search Will’s shocked blue gaze, and their lips meet in one of the tamest kisses Will has ever received. It feels more intimate than what they just did. He relaxes into it heavily, almost too exhausted to notice just how glued together they are, from their mouths to their entangled limbs. His skull is numb and filled with buzzing when the kiss ends and they breathe the same air, collapsing side by side.

“This isn’t the norm for you.” Staying. _Cuddling._

“No,” Hannibal admits, eyes half-lidded. “But nothing about this is normal.” He seems puzzled by his own admission, which ignites in Will a weak flare of hope that it might be the truth—that this meant something to him, and Will won’t lose his appeal as soon as the morning light filters across his bed. 

“If I can’t find you when I wake up, I’ll kick your ass,” Will says. “We need to talk.”

He sleeps the sleep of the dead with Hannibal plastered to his side, the last thing running through his head being that Hannibal is squeezing him a little too tight, and it feels nice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two words: house visit. two more words: alana bloom.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit so many of you guys are into this? hello and thank you to old readers and new!

"How often you talk to Francis instead of me," she whispers. “But your dragon isn’t here. I slew him.”

Hannibal tosses and turns in the sheets, fighting numbly against the strong arms wound around his waist and chest. He's sweating, which is unusual. His sleeping partner runs hot, and will not let him go. He opens his eyes. Will's reassuring warmth behind him does nothing to stop the irregular pace of his heart, or the sick feeling that washes over him when his eyes focus.

The woman sitting across the room faces away, elegant long legs crossed at the knee, hair swept across her forehead and trailing down slender shoulders. Sure enough, there is blood pooled around her bare feet and something large lies in a dead heap behind her chair. Her face is ten years older, but where his features are now sharp and angular, hers have softened, the evidence of comfortable living. But her eyes, the color of glaciers, are half-lidded and unfeeling. More blind than haunted. There is disappointment in the set of her jaw. She lifts her head higher, constricted pupils finally tearing away from the light of the window to focus on Hannibal instead.

"You look like our mother. You always did, you have her eyes, her teeth. If only I could see you now, face to face," she suggests, clever tongue curling around the words in the slow, familiar way that always gentled Hannibal as a child. The hushed hiss of a snake. She sounds exactly as she did the last time he saw her, full of false warmth, just before she drove in the knife. He catches a whiff of the Baltic Sea mixed with blood. “Tell me what you’ve done,” she says at last, so quietly, extending her hand. He doesn’t take it. “What have you become, little Count? I hear we are alike.”

“Where are you?” he asks.

He twitches awake, taking in the more defined space around him where the air doesn't seem to vibrate at will. The world is eerily silent outside, missing the sound of morning birds or the rustle of leaves, or the slightest drip of rain from the gutter. Will lies beside him, limbs stretched out at awkward angles and his mouth open. He looks much younger like this, without the worry lines and the perpetual frown and bad mood. His messy curls are scattered artfully, the image of pure innocence. Nothing about him is truly as plain as he would like to pretend, so carefully hidden away, surrounded by forest and his loyal collection of strays. Hannibal watches him sleep, reaching out to trace the bruised outlines his teeth and nails left behind in Will’s skin. His mark, he thinks, the fondness in him almost overwhelming.

 

* * *

 

Dante’s not-so-bad milky puppy breath blows directly into Will’s face. The sound of his trademark sudden, alarming bark pulls Will from deep sleep with a start. The sting from the overwhelmingly bright light makes him flinch, squinting hard after the initial shock wears off. His blurred vision focuses first on the blue eye that hovers over him, and then the darkness of its twin. Dante wiggles with delight, his big feet pressed to Will’s chest as he tries to climb on top of him and fails, tongue flicking in the air while Will holds the puppy back and turns his face in the opposite direction. He’s had worse awakenings. He abandons his gentle attempt to push the freckled puppy away when the memory of last night comes rushing back, filling him with a sense of dread. His heart feels like it’s been hit by a semi.

Save for Dante, his bed is empty.

He takes a deep breath. He should have expected this.

Just when he notices half of his dogs are mysteriously missing, the front door creaks open and they come pouring in like a river, tripping over themselves once they realize he’s awake. He straightens up to stave most of them off, holding his arms out to distribute pats and scratches while his eyes seek out Hannibal in the doorway. He’s dressed, flushed from the cold but he also emits heat, and his hair is wet. He looks amused, wide awake and fully operational as far as control over his emotions goes. Will can’t see any trace of the vulnerability from last night. That self-satisfied smile, without teeth, tells him all he needs to know; the glimpse behind the veil is over. In truth Will was lucky to witness even a fraction of Hannibal without his defenses. The warm relief Will felt at his arrival fades, replaced with an uneasy peace.

“Good morning, Will,” Hannibal says, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Thank you for taking my dogs out,” Will replies. What else can he say? _You’re so beautiful, please stay?_

“You wanted to talk,” Hannibal reminds him. Casually. He sits on the edge of the bed at Will’s feet, extending his hand to Dante, who wanders over with an excited whine and a thumping white tail.

Will resists the urge to pull at the sheets, not wanting to show his nerves. He did say that, didn’t he? He wills his voice to be level. “Do you have somewhere you need to be?” Hannibal shakes his head. “Good. Then I’m going to shower first.”

But he needs more than a handful of minutes under the shower head to think of whatever the hell he’s going to say next. Where to start? With Mischa, or Murasaki, or the lowlife Hannibal is dead set on punishing?

Or the tiny matter at hand, of what took place just a few hours ago in his own bed.

Hannibal doesn’t look at all affected by their proximity, or the fact that Will is still naked. Will doesn’t know how to feel about that. He waits the appropriate amount of time, staring meaningfully at Hannibal and half expecting him to turn away, but Hannibal doesn’t move. Unwilling to be a stranger in his own house when Hannibal has clearly made himself quite at home, Will climbs out of bed. He slides out from under the sheets and lets them drop to the floor. He’s too curious and too prideful to avoid looking in Hannibal’s direction afterward, but the open lust in Hannibal’s face forces him to quickly turn around and walk faster toward the bathroom.

His stomach does strange things and he feels several years younger, a bit full of himself. Maroon eyes had scanned him from head to toe. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Hannibal wanted to literally devour him. He still senses the eyes resting on his back, more likely on his ass, until he closes the bathroom door behind him. He hesitates, staring at the lock, and decides to leave it untouched. An open invitation, he supposes, recalling a similar move Hannibal made what feels like months ago. Hannibal has already used the shower and the room is pleasantly humid and smells faintly of him, mostly of Will’s products, but the far-fetched fantasy of sharing the tight space together makes Will shiver. The sensation travels down his spine and makes its way into his groin.

It’s too early for this.

And yet.

 

* * *

 

He can only hope Hannibal doesn’t smell the arousal or completion on him when he exits the bathroom, a towel loosely wrapped around his hips. He hadn’t thought to grab clothes. Hannibal’s wandering eyes had been too distracting.

His mattress has been stripped bare and he hears the low hum of the washer doing its job. He’s torn between gratitude and ache, knowing it needed to be done, but Hannibal’s scent will be gone from his home already, and that’s disappointing. He rounds the corner into the kitchen, paranoid, wanting to make sure Hannibal is still in the house. “Hey, thanks for…”

He shuts his mouth and bites his tongue.

Seated across from each other at the table, Alana Bloom and Hannibal Lecter turn their heads to give a half-naked Will their full attention, their expressions varying from mildly pleased to outright furious. Her blue eyes already wide, Alana’s shocked expression turns almost comical, resembling a doe caught in the headlights. Her full lips are painted apple red, a fitting look for her, and she’s fairly intimidating even caught off guard. She’s taken good care of herself where Will has not tried or been able to. For that, he admires and envies her.

He identifies the look of disapproval on her face right away, and his chest tightens with an angry indignation at seeing it. He’s surprised she has the _nerve_ , after everything. Hannibal also looks irritated underneath his outer layer of amusement. He doesn’t welcome her intrusion, despite finding the situation somewhat funny.

Will doesn’t find any of it funny. The only sound in the room is the occasional drip of water from his hair to the floor. “Just a second,” he says tonelessly, and disappears to locate some clean clothes. He thinks about sneaking through the back door, going for a walk with the dogs. He almost does it. When he returns fully dressed Alana is visibly chewing on the inside of her cheek and Hannibal isn’t saying anything, so it appears to be up to Will to break the ice.

“Hi, Alana.”

“Hi, Will,” she responds, curt.

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I left voicemails,” Alana says. She swallows. “I was getting worried about you. But I can honestly say that…this wasn’t what I expected to find.”

Wisely, Hannibal remains silent, but he inclines his head and raises a skeptical brow in her direction and it takes all of Will’s self-control not to cross the room and drag him from his chair.  

“Yeah, well,” Will grumbles. “Shit happens.”

Her eyes narrow. “I need to talk with you. _Alone._ ”

Will motions for Hannibal to follow him and is relieved when the boy is obedient, but when they reach the front porch Hannibal is looking decidedly… _anxious._ Will’s temper dies. He tries to think of what he could possibly say, and for some reason he settles for pressing his palm against Hannibal’s smooth cheek, his thumb brushing over cold skin. He doesn’t know where they stand, or what they are to one another, especially after last night. But an ounce of Hannibal’s earlier vulnerability is leaking through and it’s clear he doesn’t want to leave, not yet. He’s still newly alone in this world. “I’ll talk to you soon,” Will tells him, more affectionate when fingers come to rest over his.

Hannibal licks his lips, then nods. “All right. I would have said something, but—”

“I know,” Will says. “It’s fine.”

“Well,” Hannibal says, withholding a sigh, and they stand there unmoving.

Will can’t help it. He leans forward and kisses him, tugging him in, breath coming out ragged when he feels Hannibal’s mouth open to his, responding with the same urgency. It’s quick and heated and over too soon, but he’s suddenly filled with reassurance. He pulls away reluctantly, savoring the memory of soft lips moving against his. He’ll replay it as much as he needs to, to get through what comes next.  

“Go,” Will mumbles, but he smiles at the graceful way Hannibal descends the steps, already composed. Will lets the door slam shut when he reenters his house, childish as it is, and his smile is completely gone when he returns to the kitchen where Alana waits for him with clasped hands and judgment written all over her features. He chooses to lean against the wall, eyeing the empty chair with dread weighing heavy in his heart.

“What’d he tell you?” he asks.

“He didn’t tell me anything, and I didn’t ask. He asked me how I felt today and I told him to go fuck himself, but beyond that, the floor is yours. Please help me understand how something like this could happen.”

“That’s rich.”

“I’m not here to fight you,” she says. “That’s not why I came. I came to apologize. I know what I did. And that’s why I’m scared for you.” She looks away. “I’m ashamed of what I did, and that I kept it from you. That _I_ put you in this position. I made a mistake, but Will, you’re making a mistake too. This is a mistake. I can’t even begin to…It’s a _mistake._ ”

“You think I don’t know that?” Will bites out.

“Then why are you doing this to yourself? He’ll hurt you, Will.”

“Like you hurt me?”

She has the decency not to flinch. “He’ll do worse. We’ve both been his psychiatrist. We know the cycle, and where it goes.” He pushes away from the wall and starts to pace. Her eyes track his movements. “You don’t really think you can’t be manipulated?”

“No, I’m not an idiot. But something’s different.”

“He molds himself to fit our tastes, Will. He’s only here because he’s figured out what you’re looking for.”

He stops. “And what was your taste, Alana?”

“Someone who would take control,” she says, not intentionally unkind. “Who wanted me. What did he offer you?” _What couldn’t I give you_ , she wants to ask, _what did I do wrong_ , but Will isn’t ready to answer that question and she’s afraid to speak it aloud. “Because that _boy_ in your kitchen? That wasn’t my patient. I don't know him. It’s dress-up, Will. Theatre.”

“For him it generally is,” Will admits. “Something changed. He needed me yesterday. It just…it just happened, Alana. I don’t know what to tell you. We’re both adults.” Barely, and he conveniently leaves out the numerous incidents leading up to this, but she isn’t stupid. She knows Hannibal’s games, and she knows when Will is being dishonest.

She rubs at her eyes. “All right, look. Just tell me you aren’t his psychiatrist anymore.” He takes too long to answer, and she looks pained. “Oh, Will.”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You talk about him like he isn’t a person. He’s not some evil mastermind, Alana, he’s a kid.”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt more than you already have,” Alana murmurs helplessly.

“How long did it…” He clears his throat. Does he really want to know? “How long did it last, you two?”

“Not long,” she says, her voice hardly above a whisper. “The physical part. It…it only escalated a few times, during therapy. Wasn't long before I started to hate myself. I just wanted to get away from all of it. And I thought with your empathy, and your…disinterest, maybe he really was better off with you. I didn't trust him with anyone else. I didn't think in a million years you would fall for it.”

Will circles around the room and before he takes his seat, shoulders drooping as well as his eyelids. “You know I loved you, right?” Maybe. He didn’t know what else to call it at the time, and he still doesn’t. Everything before Hannibal feels surreal, like a blurred dream he’s only recently left behind. 

“I know you did the best you could,” she says. “It wasn’t enough for me, and that’s fair. I should have told you and that should have been the end of it. Every day I wished I’d been straightforward with you, but the more time that passed, the harder it was to tell you. But I have to ask, why him? Why was communication…reciprocation, so difficult with everyone else? But not with…” She trails off. _Was there something wrong with me?_ is once more perched on the tip of her tongue, left unsaid. Guilt eats at him, but they’re both at fault here.

“He understands me.” It feels like he’s making it up as he goes, but as the words come out, it’s true. “I’ve never felt that before, not to this extent, and I don’t think he has either. My…my empathy. It doesn’t get in the way so much when I’m with him. I’m feeling things I’ve never felt before.” _Cliché, tone it down a bit._ “We’re together in that we are alone. I can find peace in that.”

“When you and I were dating, that was how he made me feel. Be careful, Will.”

She doesn’t understand. He smiles without humor, the corners of his mouth strained. “I’m trying.”

She wants to argue, but all that can be said has been said. “It’s good to see you, Will. It’s been too long. I’m sorry for that.”

“How are you, Alana?” he asks suddenly, desperate to change the subject.

She doesn’t want to go along with it and she shifts in her seat uncomfortably, but she confides in him in the end. “I’ve been seeing someone. It’s the first relationship I’ve had since…I’m—I’m happy.”

He manages a real smile this time. “I’m glad.”

“What about you, all of this aside?”

“Well, I’ve got a new dog,” he says, choosing not to explain where the little border collie came from. “It’s more of the same,” he lies. _I also helped Hannibal hide a dead body, but the nightmares have stopped. I just dream about fucking him now. On a scale of one to ten, how fucked up does that make me, Doctor?_

“Are you still talking to your psychiatrist?”

He shakes his head. “At some point, I stopped going. Can’t really talk to them about what’s been happening lately.”

“You could start over,” Alana suggests. Worried, as ever. “Leaving a few details out, I think someone new could help you make sense of your current situation.”

“Got any suggestions?”

Alana instantly flushes.

Despite himself, Will manages a laugh. “You’re dating another psychiatrist, aren’t you?”

She huffs, her own amusement bleeding through the embarrassment. “Probably says something about me, doesn’t it? She’s good. Really good, but she’s strange at first. Very laid-back, though, quiet. She won’t mind about our history. I could leave you her contact information if you’d like. I’d really feel better about this whole thing if I did.”

The mention “she” initially takes him by surprise, but he supposes he never really thought too hard about being with _men_ before Hannibal, either. And he hardly asked Alana about her preferences when they were dating. He leans across the table and places his hand over hers, and she looks so relieved he decides on the spot to indulge her. The thought of letting go in front of a professional stranger, admitting to just a little and being safely on his way, it’s tempting after keeping everything locked so tight. It's never wise to be one's own therapist. “Yeah. Why not?”

 

* * *

 

It’s been quiet since Alana’s visit yesterday. When she left, he felt drained. He spent most of the day sleeping and fiddled with improvements around the house throughout the night. He stayed away from his phone. He slept for a few hours in clean sheets, miserable. He woke up on four different occasions hoarding pillows in his arms and stuffed between his legs, but it did little for his imagination without the smell. Usually it’s so ridiculously easy to conjure up whatever he wants. Now that he knows how it feels, it’s hard. It's driving him crazy.

He hasn’t called Doctor Du Maurier yet, but something about the name rings familiar. His fingers are poised to call the number while he leans over his desk in his office with his head in his hand, body heavy with exhaustion. Poor Franklyn Froideveaux is no doubt fidgeting away in the waiting room, ten minutes early for his appointment. Will stays seated. He cares for his patient, he really does, but he doesn’t have it in him to listen to Franklyn for longer than necessary.

Franklyn still hasn’t gotten the message.

The door creaks open and for a moment Will’s irritation flares up, but he takes a deep breath and says with the gentleness of speaking to a confused child, “Franklyn, I’ll be right with you. You still have ten minutes.” He hears the door click shut, but not the nervous shuffle of retreating footsteps. Will lifts his head and prepares to be sterner, but the words die on his lips when he sees Hannibal in his office instead of Franklyn.

“Very busy, are you?” Hannibal inquires as he approaches, and suddenly Will is transported back to their earlier sessions, where he very much felt like the field mouse held beneath the cat’s paw. If his self-assured, slow walk is anything to go by, Hannibal’s confidence has returned in full.

Will stands. He’s absurdly happy with this surprise visit, but his mouth has also gone dry. “Shouldn’t you be at the university?”

“I’m between classes,” Hannibal says, inching closer. “…and according to the charming Mr. Froideveaux, you are between appointments.”

“Franklyn saw you?”

“Don’t worry.” Will’s stomach flies into his throat when Hannibal gets close enough to smell, and the backs of his knees hit the edge of his chair. He half falls, half slides back into it. Hannibal looms over him. “We had a chat. Though I think I’ve shaken his firm belief in his heterosexuality, he remains unsuspicious.”

The fuck is this? “H-Hannibal, wait, what are you—”

Hannibal drops to his knees, shoving Will’s legs apart.

“If you don’t want this, let me know now. If you do you’ll need to lower your voice.”

Not much room for misinterpretation.

“I’ve been unable to think of much else, all day,” Hannibal explains, deft fingers feeling through the front of Will’s pants to knead at the flesh of his inner thighs, and the erection he’s been sporting since Hannibal first started advancing on him. Will swallows an instinctive growl and presses so far into the back of his chair he thinks he might meld with the material. “Which is troubling, as I would prefer to focus on my studies right now. This should help.” Hannibal glances up from the floor as if to ask for permission. It’s as if he isn’t even aware how appealing he is, but Will already knows that’s bullshit. “And you won’t mind?”

“By all means,” Will says, weak but boldly sarcastic. “Please feel free.”

The thought of turning him away hasn’t even crossed his mind, even with Franklyn right outside. He figures the door isn’t even locked, but he finds himself trying to make excuses all the same; _Surely the desk will block the view. It’ll be fine._ And then he realizes his excitement has doubled specifically because of the danger. That he is apparently into this kind of thing comes as a bit of a shock, but he gets over it fast. It would be hard not to, with his zipper being pulled down and his boxers just enough to free his arousal, the cold air quickly replaced with Hannibal’s warm breath as he takes in Will’s scent. Will quietly blows out his breath as a hand wraps around him, small encouraging strokes guiding him closer to Hannibal’s mouth.

“Won’t Frederick notice you’re missing?” he challenges, while the selfish part of him screams for him to shut up.

“Frederick?” Hannibal raises a brow. “I ended our relationship days ago,” he says, and Will falls in love just a little bit, groaning when soft lips envelop him and a hot tongue caresses the underside of his cock.

“ _Jesus._ ”

It’s embarrassingly fast, but that’s sort of the point—Hannibal has no time for play. He has work to do, and Will has appointments to keep. Through half-closed eyes he watches Hannibal swallow him, take him in deeper until he should be choking but he keeps his composure and he isn’t, he’s simply committed. He’s mindful of his teeth, though each accidental scrape is more pleasurable than painful for Will, the tight suction around him making him curl in on himself and run his fingers through Hannibal’s stupidly neat hair. His hips jerk forward involuntarily but Hannibal seems to _encourage_ it, tugging his waist closer, and soon enough Will lets go of his restraint.

“Fuck, Hannibal.”

He’s reaching blindly for the mental images that whir past, unsure of their origin, but all of them are tempting thoughts. He sees himself fucking Hannibal on his desk, hands around his throat, or holding him up against the wall beside the bookcase. Late at night or before a morning session, during their own session, it doesn’t matter. He feels the vibration of Hannibal moaning softly around his cock and that’s when he opens his eyes, the sight before him too good to miss—Hannibal pulling back in time to swallow, sucking until Will is left trembling and oversensitive and every last drop has been had. Hannibal’s face is flushed and his mouth is glistening wet and swollen from misuse. He looks lovely, on the verge of ecstasy, but he also seems mildly confused.

Not questioning it, Will yanks him up from the floor and pulls Hannibal into his lap, grabbing onto his hips. He leans in for a kiss, eager to taste a trace of himself on Hannibal’s tongue. It’s not what he expects, but it isn’t unpleasant. In the afterglow, it’s perfect, and it feels vaguely symbolic. When he finally gets his hand inside Hannibal’s pants, Hannibal buries his face in Will’s throat and makes a muffled, quiet noise. Will can feel the abrupt tension in his muscles, then the release, and his hand comes away sticky.

Hannibal looks wrecked, breathless and filled with darling, sleepy suspicion. “That’s never happened before.”

Will supposes he means he’s never gotten pleasure out of giving, or required so little touch. It’s hard to believe, considering his exploits and Will’s very limited experience, but he isn’t lying. Flattered and not at all disappointed, Will presses his smile to Hannibal’s lips. He pretends he didn't just throw himself down the rabbit hole.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the little murder muffin's insecurity is showing


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please mind the new tags and make sure you already read the previous chapter!
> 
> mainly hannibal’s pov. trigger warning for the sheer amount of page breaks, because lord have mercy

After the surprise blowjob in his office, he’s had to witness Franklyn’s downward spiral into yet another unhealthy fixation—Will crumples the edges of his notes and holds tight to his ballpoint pen when Franklyn’s eyes go starry and his pudgy face softens in admiration, and he makes a fumbling, nervous inquiry after Will’s very mannerly and just all around delightful “nephew.”

“Don’t you think we should focus on _you_ today, Franklyn?”

A disappointed _Oh_ is Franklyn’s answer. He would rather focus on anyone or anything else, which is the main reason for his therapy. “I suppose we should, shouldn’t we? After all, that’s why I’m here! But if you could give me your professional opinion on a friend of mine…”

Will breathes out a sigh of relief.

If he can save just one oblivious fool from the walking disaster that is Hannibal Lecter, he will.

Especially, he thinks guiltily, if it means keeping Hannibal for himself.

 

* * *

 

Hannibal is preoccupied with fighting a satisfied smile that threatens to ruin his self-composure when he recognizes the car beside his in the parking lot.

Instantly he feels less triumphant and more annoyed. He spares an upward glance to the windows on the second floor of the building he just left, but the curtains are closed; Will is seeing his patient. Hannibal makes a half-hearted reach for the door of his car and hears a loud slam behind him, followed by the tap of shoes against asphalt. He chooses to wait for the inevitable, willing his muscles to relax and his irritation to smooth over.

“Therapy, Hannibal?” comes the noisy, obnoxious voice. “ _Really?_ I’m surprised.”

He turns around slowly. “And I am not.”

“It isn’t like you to wander off campus so early in the day, I hear,” the young man explains, his careless saunter broadcasting disinterest. Excitement, however, radiates from his insides. It’s in the crazed glint in his eye, the undecided faltering and spreading of his smile. Hannibal can smell it. “I followed you, of course. I had nothing else to do today! Hoped you would lead me somewhere interesting. What I find _most_ interesting is, you seem a tad bit more disheveled walking out than when you walked in,” the man says, elated with his discovery. “Did you have an emotional breakdown? I’m sorry I missed it.”

“I think you would benefit from a little old-fashioned therapy, Mason.” Preferably the sort with electrodes, or a drill and a sharp instrument.

“I only hope _I_ wasn’t the cause of your distress,” Mason Verger says, projecting his voice over Hannibal’s. His expression turns worried, almost pouting as he gets closer. Hannibal keeps his feet planted where they are, thoroughly unimpressed.

“Of course not,” Hannibal assures him.

“You’re welcome by the way.”

“Remind me what for.”

“Free drugs!” Mason exclaims, throwing his arms wide. “For the best fuck of your life! I bet you were a little ball of _fun_ , weren’t you? Too bad you _wasted_ it with that sissy, Frederick. Rumor has it you kicked him to the curb afterwards. Cold, _cold_ Hannibal. Couldn’t he satisfy you?” He pauses for effect. “I could. I tried to show you how.”

“You drugged me, Mason. That’s hardly fair play.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t play so hard to get!” Mason snaps. Hannibal can, unfortunately, taste his breath. “You left me no choice, really. Come on, Hannibal. _Hannah._ We’ll have some good, _funny_ times, just the two of us—we can have our own party. You don’t want to go back to class. Come with me, let’s have some fun.” He had drawn closer, but he stops quite suddenly, growing paranoid. “Why do you keep looking up there? For help? Am I boring you?” he asks, following Hannibal’s gaze to the office window. Finding nothing, he inspects Hannibal’s somewhat tousled appearance a second time.

“ _Oh_ ,” Mason says in understanding, and with a grin he lurches forward to cover Hannibal’s mouth with his own.

Hannibal almost bites him. He keeps his mouth closed and dry instead, intending to ignore the pathetic attempt, but he underestimates Mason’s determination. A hand grasps the back of his head and yanks on his hair, forcing him to part his lips, and an unwelcome tongue worms its way inside his mouth. It takes all his self-control not to bite it clean off, to avoid gritting his teeth as the unwanted force invades his personal space and tastes everything within its reach.

 

* * *

 

Will readjusts his glasses out of habit, glancing briefly at the window. He thinks about standing and drawing the curtains so the light can pour in. This session is putting a damper on his unusually good mood and a little bit of sunlight might do Franklyn some good. He can hear voices outside below, and he wonders distractedly if Hannibal hasn’t left. He uncrosses his legs in preparation to check, but Franklyn starts sobbing so pitifully he reaches for the tissues instead. The extra soft, specially ordered kind bought specifically with Franklyn in mind. Anything less will chafe his nose and cause unnecessary stress and complaint, Will has learned. He refocuses his attention on his patient.

 

* * *

 

Mason crowds him, the backs of his thighs and his spine crushed against the side of his car. His upper lip is curled in a faint snarl when Mason pulls away, tongue returning to its rightful place. Mason licks his lips thoughtfully, considering. He explodes into high-pitched laughter, the volume making Hannibal cringe despite his resolve to remain unaffected. Mason releases his hold in Hannibal’s hair, shoving his face away harshly. He doesn’t free his waist, instead pushing into him harder, blowing his breath in Hannibal’s ear.

“You’ve been _naughty_ in there, haven’t you? Are you fucking your psychiatrist, Hannibal? Getting a bit desperate for attention, I’d say. Daddy issues, much? You’re just  _adorable._ ” He leans in. “And nothing but a cock warmer. I have to wonder, is that how you got into Johns Hopkins so young?”

Hannibal’s eye twitches, but beyond that the irritation itching under his skin is invisible. If he wanted, he could kill Mason here and now. He’s bigger and in better shape, but Mason is apparently unaware of this. Hannibal’s attempt to make himself appear smaller, for Will, seems to have bled into reality and become a permanent part of his public persona. And Mason’s inflated ego has no room for doubts about his own strength. Hannibal decides to downplay, letting himself sag against the car, looking away in submission. He thinks of the coy behavior that always made Will shift in his seat even when he knew it was play. He feels himself flush. As expected, Mason nearly flattens him in response, convinced he now has control over the situation. Ignoring the internal panic over his dwindling sense of dignity, Hannibal utters a quiet, believable gasp. Hard to hear, harder to miss.  

“That’s what I thought,” Mason praises, cupping his cheek. “See, _now we’re getting somewhere_.”

Hannibal looks up at him. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

Mason’s grin is predatory. “Why shouldn’t I?”

He wants to be convinced, which opens a world of opportunities.

Hannibal swallows, more to hold back his pleasure than to feign nervousness.

Will told him no.

He did so in a roundabout way, admittedly, but his disapproval was evident. Ideally, Hannibal would want to discuss this with Will first, but Will isn’t here.

He lets himself remember how it felt to kill Francis. He recalls the blood, the heat of it splashing from Francis’ throat and down over the front of Hannibal’s shirt and neck, crashing against his face and inside his mouth. He remembers the intelligence and light dying from Francis’ eyes, the weakness in his once impressive muscles as he rolled around and leaked his life on the kitchen tile. He had crawled away like a dog. Gurgled and gushed gouts of blood when the knife pierced flesh.

Hannibal remembers Will’s hands. The unexpected comfort.

His smell, so close he could breathe it, _finally_ , all its dog-scented, pine and fish and aftershave and sweat-riddled glory. He almost laughed at himself, at how much he enjoyed it while hating it for how horrible it was. It still drives him to madness, his need for it bringing him all the way to Will’s office on a Monday afternoon. Playing at being sick, abandoning his responsibilities just for a whiff. Or a taste, more accurately.

Better to ask forgiveness, Hannibal decides.

“What was it you said?” he asks, suggestive. “That we could share some good, funny times together?”

 

* * *

 

Franklyn’s incredibly emotional session is over and Will is left feeling drained from it, and anxious for a different reason. The Bentley is still in the parking lot, empty of its driver, and aside from Will’s beat up car and Franklyn’s ride, no other vehicles are in sight. Will stands at the window, pushing aside the curtains with his phone in one hand, index finger hovering over the call button. He ultimately decides not to, returning to his desk instead.

Hannibal must have had business somewhere nearby. Will tries not to think about it. He prepares for his next appointment. And he still feels wrong. He shrugs off his outer layers and readjusts the thermostat. He loosens his tie in the dead of winter. Something isn’t right. He feels exactly like one of his dogs, locked away inside the house while _knowing_ something else is out there.

 

* * *

 

It’s difficult to appreciate the extravagance of the house when inside it smells like a mixture of drugs, sweat, and sex. The interior is in complete disarray. Mason’s great inheritance wasted. Nothing left for poor Margot, who is wisely nowhere to be found. Hannibal wrinkles his nose in distaste at the garbage on the floor. He ignores the arm thrown around him and the persistent hand gripping his hip as Mason guides them beyond the trashed foyer and down the stairs, into the basement. Anyone else’s instincts would insist they run, but as he has no conscience that he knows of, he feels only anticipation.

The bulbs in the chandelier have burned out, leaving only the weak golden light from a simple lamp. He recognizes this room from what Margot has told him, and the talk from the rest of the unfortunates. The low vibration against his thigh alerts him to an incoming call, but he puts his hand inside his pocket and silences it without checking the number. He will need patience from Will today. From behind, Mason makes a show of removing Hannibal’s coat for him. It resembles a mockery more than it does good manners. 

“Thirsty?”

 

* * *

 

That Hannibal ignores his call isn’t surprising, but it does sting. Will scratches nervously at the back of his neck. The longer he obsesses over this bad feeling, the harder it will be to shake it off. For all he knows, it’s nothing but paranoia. An unfortunate side effect to how close he’s felt to Hannibal lately, and how much he cares about him. Probably well-deserved.

 

* * *

 

Hannibal watches carefully as Mason prepares two drinks at the bar set, especially interested in the subtle flick of his wrist, and the few seconds too long it takes for him to turn around and rejoin Hannibal on the sofa. Hannibal wraps his hand around the glass offered to him and tilts it to his nose, but aside from the drink itself, it’s odorless. He meets Mason’s eyes and takes the smallest amount into his mouth, tasting for a moment before he swallows. He couldn’t separate the bitterness from the salt before, but now he can, easily. He recognizes it.

“Is this what you dosed me with before, Mason?” he scolds gently. “I thought I already gave you my consent.”

Mason bursts into ear-splitting inappropriate laughter, shrugging his shoulders. “But it makes things _interesting_ ,” he insists. “You can’t fault me for trying.”

“What is it?”

“A homemade cocktail. Why don’t you make a guess? You’re the doctor-to-be.”

Hannibal holds out his hand expectantly. Practically shivering with excitement, Mason fishes inside his pockets and produces three vials, depositing them obediently into Hannibal’s waiting palm. Two contain a mysterious clear liquid. The last is empty. Hannibal opens one of the remaining vials and hands it back to Mason, whose eyes widen with childlike curiosity.

“I want you to put this in your drink. To make things interesting,” Hannibal adds, and takes a sip in earnest. He isn’t worried in the slightest, but amused.  

Mason is quick to do as he says.

 

* * *

 

It’s been two hours.

 

* * *

 

The man is whining about their peers, sprawled half on top of him and becoming handsy but not yet out of control, when the glass slips from Hannibal’s grip. It breaks into four distinct pieces. He notices it too late, fingers clenching around nothing but air, and only sometime after the sound has reached his ears. He flexes his fingers and stares thoughtfully at his hand while Mason laughs, and laughs.

 

* * *

 

Three fucking hours.

 

* * *

 

The motions are easy, and he has a swell imagination. He counts the seconds to keep up with the time, ignoring the heat that burns at his insides and suggests that he removes his clothes. He would rather drown in his own sweat first. It becomes harder to separate reality from thought when he opens his eyes and is almost certain that the man forcing his way between his thighs is Will. Of course, it isn’t. But if it makes the process easier, he’ll play pretend. Whatever nonsense Mason is saying, he tunes it out and swallows it down, focusing on fighting the swell of nausea that comes from sloppily received kisses and hands that handle too roughly, touching where they aren't wanted. On the other hand, his spine arches as if it’s been pulled by a string, riding out waves of euphoria that he isn’t interested in feeling but cannot physically ignore. His breath comes slow or not at all. He is vaguely aware of sliding, his shoulders hitting the floor, head landing beside the broken shards of glass. A heavy weight follows and pushes on his chest, but most of the pressure comes from the grinding against his lower half. To humor him, Hannibal spreads his legs wider. Aside from taking care not to leave a mark, refraining from digging in his nails or using his teeth, he relinquishes his control. Some of it.

Mason’s disappointment with Hannibal’s agreeable behavior manifests in the hands that wrap dangerously tight around Hannibal’s throat, and the seemingly endless cackling in his ear. “I noticed those marks around your neck, from weeks ago. Your scarf slipped and I _so_ wondered about them. Frederick wouldn’t say, but I don’t think it was him. He doesn’t have it in him. Do you like to be choked? I’ll bet you do.”

Hannibal’s eyes wander over to the sparkling shards beside his head. “Ah, ah!” Mason tuts in warning.

He plays stupid, managing to choke out instead, “Do you?”

Mason’s reply hardly needs to be said, and Hannibal already knows, but he answers in a conspiratorial whisper. “I have a special device.”

If it’s what Hannibal suspects, the best opportunity has presented itself. “Would you like to demonstrate for me?”

“Oh boy, _would I?_ ”

 

* * *

 

…

 

* * *

 

Between climbing up from the floor and finding his footing, Hannibal manages to grab Mason by his shirt and pour the contents of the remaining vial directly onto his tongue. Hannibal covers his mouth and nose, forcing him to swallow in dazed confusion. Mason uses it as an excuse to land a hard blow across Hannibal’s cheek. The force behind the punch nearly knocks him off his feet. The tang of blood fills his mouth and he supposes he should keep it in mind, scanning the floor for stray drops that will need to be cleaned. Something in his expression amuses Mason, who forgets the entire exchange and tugs Hannibal along by the waist.

“Let me show you.”

It’s in Mason’s locked walk-in closet upstairs, which is impressive in size even in comparison to Hannibal’s wardrobe waiting at Lady Murasaki’s home. But this closet isn’t filled with clothes. Hannibal pulls out drawers along the walls, his vision focusing with noticeable trouble on the paraphernalia kept inside. Mason explains the nature of his toys, crudely, and Hannibal politely declines thumbing through a set of questionable photographs from a Polaroid camera. Margot’s mascara-streaked face is reason enough for what he is about to do, but he must admit his own reasons are selfish. He touches nothing if he can help it, striving to memorize what he does touch. His eyes settle on a pair of police quality handcuffs while Mason fusses with something at the darker end of the closet. He picks them up, holding them behind his back when he turns to face Mason.

“An impressive collection,” he lies, not managing to sound very invested. Thankfully Mason isn’t listening.

Mason struggles to get his head through a noose, standing on top of a sturdy, wide stool. Upon closer inspection, Hannibal finds that it isn’t drilled into the floor. It can be moved. He rests his weight against one of the walls, eyes tracking Mason’s movements. His voice doesn’t feel quite his own, but it does sound convincing this time. Mason can still comprehend some words. 

“Autoerotic asphyxiation is as addictive as it is dangerous, isn’t it? Deprived of adequate oxygen supply, combined with orgasm, the rush is no less powerful than cocaine.” He pauses. “Why don’t you tighten it? It would make me very happy if you did.”

His calm suggestions seem like grand ideas to Mason. He accepts Hannibal’s freely offered instruction with hums of pleasure, his breath nothing but short aroused puffs when the contraption around his throat fits needlessly snug. The profuse sweating and tremors have nothing to do with his anticipation, however, and everything to do with the excess drug working its way into his system.

“Take off your clothes,” Hannibal tells him.

Straining with his head held mostly in place, tilted upward and standing on the tips of his toes, Mason removes his button-down shirt and casts it aside. He fumbles with his belt and drops his pants.

“Touch yourself.”

Mason is blissfully unaware, all too eager to please now that his brain can hardly put together a single string of thought.

Hannibal opens his mouth to speak, but his next words are drowned out by the sound of gagging and heaving. His interest piques. This is unexpected, but not unwelcome. The muscles in Mason’s stomach contract and his choked gasps turn foul-smelling as vomit erupts from his mouth and trickles down the sides of his face. Hannibal stands off to one side as limbs jerk and strike out at nothing, and he watches the rope tighten around Mason’s neck as the man loses control of his body. His legs fold and he begins to strangle himself, inhaling his own vomit instead of air. Hannibal watches in fascination, wondering at his luck as he helps Mason along by unhurriedly kicking aside the footstool.

Mason is drowning in his filth. Hannibal stows away the handcuffs in the pocket with his phone, his eyes never leaving the irony playing itself out in front of him.

Hannibal maps out this moment inside his head until he is certain every detail has been captured and can be flawlessly replayed. He stores it away in the spare rooms of his subconscious, retrievable in case he suffers amnesia. When he opens his eyes, Mason’s body swings lifelessly from side to side, the beam above creaking from the dead weight. The world tilts underneath Hannibal’s feet so he moves with it, setting to work on wiping the prints from what little he’s touched. It should be an open and shut case; death by autoerotic asphyxiation accompanied by drug overdose, if it isn’t immediately swept under the rug as a suicide. The embarrassing truth might be too much for the remainder of Mason’s family to make public.

He swipes Margot’s picture on his way out and leaves the rest, finding his way to the kitchen for a much needed cold glass of water. He refills it twice. He cleans after himself and uses Margot’s shower, scrubbing his skin raw. He washes out his mouth, ignoring the sting of his split lip and his aching teeth, and leaves a note taped to her mirror with the Polaroid held underneath.

 

_“Our scars have the power to remind us that the past was real. Be grateful, Margot, and be vigilant.”_

_—H._

* * *

 

Pushing his luck, he stops to eat first before taking a taxi back to Will’s office. He knows Will has worked himself into a panic, and for that he is sorry. His cellphone tells him he has three missed calls, and the usual dozen texts from Frederick, each begging for another chance as if it was his fault to begin with. He ignores it all, along with an e-mail from a concerned fellow student.

He doesn’t catch his driver’s name or most of the friendly conversation, though he feels his sore mouth forming the expected polite responses. The ghosts of Francis and Mischa are strangely quiet, absent from his thoughts. He closes his eyes against the irregular streaks of evening light that flash through the windows. The grossly overplayed, poorly made pop song on the radio suddenly makes sense to him.

It’s still awful.

He pretends to walk for his car when he finally arrives, his movements slow and deliberate to keep his balance as well as to add authenticity. He hesitates convincingly when he hears a door slam shut and he waves away the strange sense of déjà vu.

“Hannibal?”

The heartfelt worry in Will’s voice unsettles him slightly and he chalks it up to not being in his right mind. Before he can turn around, Will is already closing the distance between them.  

“Where have you been?” Will asks, his frustration either not evident or nonexistent. His body language is, for the lack of a better descriptor, soft, and he uses the quiet tone normally reserved for his dogs. Hannibal thinks he should find it offensive, but it’s endearing. Something inside him sings at the reassurance Will’s presence provides.  

The swelling in his chest is suffocating. 

What is this? Is he _smitten?_

When he manages to face Will without tipping over, however, Will changes his tune. He stops walking and frowns, attention landing on Hannibal’s bruised cheek and split lip. It must look painfully familiar. He flares, snarling, “Who the fuck—” And he cuts himself off, stepping closer to consider Hannibal’s eyes and occasionally wobbly stance. His pitch shifts to one of disbelief. “Hannibal, are you _high?_ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter loosely based on [this](https://youtu.be/Q-bDppEz23c) clip
> 
> well i’ll be damned, i think cupid got his shit together and finally shot hannibal in the ass y’all


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's an extra long chapter!

“Are you _high?_ ”

His voice comes out as a surprised squeak, prompting him to break away from his bewilderment long enough to clear his throat and blink until he’s sure of what he’s seeing. Swallowing his panic, he reaches out to brush his thumb against Hannibal’s cheek, lightly over bruised skin. It’s too familiar a situation for his liking, too familiar a gesture. He hates it. And he hates the way Hannibal closes his red eyes, turned golden in the sunset, and presses eagerly into the more hesitant touch. Openly savoring it and ignoring the twinge of discomfort it must cause.

When Will speaks again, somehow he sounds weaker than before. “Hannibal, what happened?”

“Nothing important,” Hannibal says, matter-of-fact and only as an afterthought. He’s far gone. “You don’t need to worry, Will.” His tongue is heavy and lingers on Will’s name, and his eyes stay closed.

Feeling Hannibal’s weight tipping forward, Will takes another step and gets his arm around Hannibal just in time to keep him on his feet. He catches only the barest whiff of alcohol, and more easily the scent of a fresh shower, something flowery and sugar-sweet along with mouthwash. There is nothing else, or nothing that he can detect. His nose isn’t as impressive as Hannibal’s. “What did you take? Do I need to drive you to a hospital?”

“I shouldn’t need to tell you why that is a bad idea,” Hannibal advises, no help at all. Will snorts but aims them in the direction of his own car, sitting halfway across the parking lot. He’s prepared to ignore Hannibal’s warning. His future career isn’t worth his life.

It’s a short walk, and Hannibal does well, but it’s time-consuming all the same and Will’s mind is racing with horrifying possibilities. Did someone drug him? Or was he stupid enough to partake? He certainly arrived in one piece, however oddly put-together. So where did his injuries come from? Did he defend himself like he did with Francis? There is no blood, no petrified boy waiting for guidance. No, he’s _fine_ , albeit doped up. No matter how hard Will tries, he can’t piece it together. He can’t focus.

Who did this? _Who touched him?_

“God damn it,” Will grits out. He’s lightheaded with cold fury and absolutely none of it is reserved for Hannibal, who probably deserves it the most. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why shouldn't I worry?”

Hannibal stops walking, yanking Will to a halt for his undivided attention.

“I don’t have a problem with telling you what happened,” Hannibal says, which is, to Will, a sign that he does. “But I’d like to be in my right mind when I do.”

It’s undoubtedly a bid for more time, for more control over the situation than he possesses. But willful ignorance and a pressing anxiousness over Hannibal’s questionable state is what finally encourages Will to nod slowly, opening the passenger door of his car. “Was it the…that _jerk_ from before?” he asks, heated, and promptly falls silent at Hannibal’s exasperated glance. He makes sure Hannibal isn’t going to tumble from the seat before he shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side, pained to be away from him for even that amount of time. He’s pleased to find that Hannibal has managed to buckle his seat belt by himself.

Will is automatically driving in the direction of home, looking at Hannibal more than he does the road, when he thinks to ask the most basic question. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Will.”

It sounds sincere; and he sounds suspiciously content. Will hears the whisper of fabric and turns to find Hannibal facing away from him, his eyes closing a final time. Will itches to speak to him, about what happened, about anything, but when he finally says Hannibal’s name Hannibal is either asleep or outright ignoring him. It’s hard to tell. Will feels only somewhat reassured when he sees his chest rising and falling at a slow but acceptable pace. The drive to his house is especially long and uncomfortable and he nearly makes himself dizzy with how often he checks on his ridiculous, naïve passenger.

_What the hell did you do now, kid?_

The dogs sound the alarm and gather at the windows, a line of inquisitive heads popping up in succession when he pulls into the driveway.

He leans over, placing his hand on Hannibal’s shoulder. He gives it a light squeeze. No response. He’s bordering on panic when Hannibal opens his eyes. The flash of confusion is almost too quick to capture, replaced with recognition and relief at the sound of Will’s barking dogs.

He supports most of Hannibal’s weight this time, doing his best not to overreact to how much more out of it Hannibal seems. A stern _No_ deters most of his dogs from jumping or sniffing uninvited, the only rule breakers being Buster and Dante. Tails wag and eight pairs of eyes watch Will deposit Hannibal unceremoniously onto the bed. Will heaves a sigh and sits beside him, hastily throwing his arms out to catch Dante before the big puppy can launch himself at Hannibal.

“Just tell me if I should be worried.”

“Tomorrow, Will,” Hannibal assures him, accent growing thicker. His exhaustion is also apparent in his sluggish movements and muted tone. “I’m sorry. I can’t stay awake.”

Will says nothing, setting Dante on the floor and pointing him toward the kitchen. Will stays behind, helping Hannibal out of his coat and setting to work on the buttons of his shirt.

When Hannibal’s expression turns almost comical with surprise, Will says seriously, “I doubt you can undress yourself.”

Hannibal looks at the hands lying useless in his lap. “Probably not.”

Will tries not to stare too long at the faint bruises scattered over Hannibal’s ribs and sides, the shape of fingertips dug roughly into flesh, as if he’d been grabbed. Jaw tight, Will bends to remove shoes and socks next. The image sticks with him. It taunts him.

The entire process goes without incident or words exchanged, until Will asks him to lie back so he can remove his pants. A feeling he’s afraid to name crawls down his spine and renders him speechless and his hands clumsy. He turns away as soon as he can, tearing himself free from the fire in Hannibal’s eyes and the hopelessly infatuated look on his face. It wasn’t what Will expected to see. A little smirk, a crooked smile maybe, but not _that._

This is dangerous.

“I’ll get you some water,” Will murmurs.

He folds clothes sloppily, hanging them over the back of a chair in the kitchen. He empties Hannibal’s pockets, intending to set aside his keys and phone, but his fingers close around something else. He pulls it out and stares at it, throat tight, and shakily puts it back without saying a word. He takes a moment to compose himself. When he returns with a glass of ice water Hannibal is tucked underneath thin sheets, oblivious to one of the smaller dogs curled into the dip in his lower back, and he has fallen asleep.

It’s a long while before Will feels it’s safe enough to look away.

Although he tries to be reasonable about it, he uses every excuse possible to pass the front room during his evening ritual. Hannibal remains motionless. Will takes a break from pacing to feed his dogs and let them outside, relieved by their good manners and training; they leave Hannibal alone and are relatively quiet. He eats sparingly, the memory of the bruises on Hannibal’s bare skin extinguishing his appetite.

Hours of worrying himself sick suddenly catches up to him. He can barely lift his head once the sun disappears, and it’s still early. He turns off the lights and crawls into bed in all his clothes. The bed springs protest at his added weight but Hannibal might as well be dead; he doesn’t move a muscle, though Will thinks he mumbles something not in English. He trains his eyes on Hannibal’s back and watches him breathe until his brain eventually takes pity on him in the middle of the night, and sends him back to his old nightmares instead.  

 

* * *

 

After tossing and turning to the point that he tangles himself in the sheets and cuts off the circulation in his limbs by lying on top of his arms, he’s rewarded with three hours of uninterrupted darkness. Blessedly blank space inside his head. Morning light jerks him away from his safe place. He willingly gives up on the idea of going back to sleep. All of yesterday’s events come rushing back, rendering him nauseous and shaky. His eyes shoot open and he expects to see nothing, to be as alone as he was last time, but he’s met with an equally tired gaze that roots him to the spot.

If Hannibal is embarrassed at being caught staring, he shows no sign of it. Will looks away.

“How are you feeling?” he tries, slurring a bit.

“I’ve felt better,” Hannibal says. He doesn’t sound well, but he’s alive, and himself. Some of the tension leaves Will’s muscles. The rest sticks like glue. In his peripheral, Hannibal’s intense eyes continue to feast shamelessly on the sight of him. Will doesn’t bother hiding under the covers. There wouldn’t be any point. _He’s_ fully dressed.

He raises a brow. “Why are you looking at me like you want to eat me?”

“Because I do,” Hannibal purrs.

Will rolls his eyes at the reply, but he’s stopped by the spreading smile on the boy’s face.

“I really enjoy looking at you, Will.”

Shaking his head, Will grunts and rolls closer. He feels Hannibal’s forehead with the back of his hand. It’s warm, but not overly so. His eyes drift to the bruise on the boy’s cheek, and instinctively his fingers touch the skin there as well. He feels it flush and he tries to withdraw, but Hannibal grabs his wrist and holds onto it.

Swallowing, Will lets him have it. He watches Hannibal inspect the veins, skimming the surface with fingertips, and he suppresses a shiver. “You speak French in your sleep.”

That catches Hannibal off guard. “What did I say?”

“I don’t have a clue,” Will confesses. “My French is broken and limited to what I learned in southern Louisiana, and you were mumbling. It could’ve been about anything.”

“Nothing terrible, I hope,” Hannibal jokes, but his distraction is apparent. Will waits patiently for him to reveal his thoughts, eyes dropping to admire his bare neck in the meantime. “Before we moved here, I lived in France with my aunt and uncle. In the countryside,” Hannibal explains. “It was…after.”

Will doesn’t ask after what.

Hannibal frowns at the brief spasm in Will’s hand. “How much have you figured out?”

Heart pounding wildly inside his chest, Will chooses his words carefully. “I know that she exists, or existed. Her name. What she did to you, more or less. I don’t want to assume too much.”

Hannibal nods. When he speaks, Will’s pulse jumps. “My earliest memories are of Mischa.”

He continues without any show of emotion. Explaining Mischa’s existence is the equivalent to making a remark on the weather. “She was my constant companion, as soon as I could walk. We spent our time together exploring the estate and playing, more often than time spent with our parents or tutors. In front of them she was soft-spoken and motherly, always gentle with me.” He tilts his head in Will’s direction. “And alone, she killed animals because she wanted to see what was inside. I think she wanted to teach me. All of it, everything she could—the art of manipulation, mostly, and to her benefit. If I made a mistake she would punish me in a way she saw most appropriate, or ironic. And the reward for a job well done was not suffering her anger. I was her doll, her experiment; only her darling baby brother in front of company.”

It’s difficult to ignore the twisting inside his belly, but Will manages the question, “Did your parents ever know?”

“If I thought to warn them of her true nature, she would have changed my mind. I was always enchanted by her and she knew it.”

“You wouldn’t have known any different.”

“Children aren’t stupid. I knew our relationship was bizarre, when I was old enough to question it,” Hannibal says. His voice lowers, then. “But I did not care. Not because I was devoted to her,” he adds. He doesn’t elaborate. “No, they never knew. When she killed them, it was clean. It was impersonal.”

Lacking the details, Will shouldn’t be able to construct the scene so easily, but he does—whether he wants to or not.

“My eyes never left the gun, I didn’t notice the knife behind her back. She said I wasn’t ready, and she cut me. She kissed my head before she left. It was an empty gesture.”

Will forces his eyes to stay open. He doesn’t want to see. “You never saw her again.”

“Only in my mind.”

“What do you think she meant?”

“I don’t see the point in questioning anything she did, or said.” After being still for so long, it startles Will a bit to feel fingers tighten around his wrist. Perhaps it’s supposed to reassure Will, because Hannibal doesn’t look bothered. “She’s gone. Whatever she was grooming me for, she didn’t—or hasn’t—come to collect. If I had begged for my life, or cried, I think she would have killed me. It never occurred to me to do either.”

They lie together in silence, listening to the birds in the trees hanging over the house, and the quiet pad of paws on the floor as the dogs filter in and out of the rooms. Will moves closer, weak with relief when Hannibal accepts the offer. He can hear Hannibal inhaling his scent. His breath is warm and tempting against Will’s throat. “If she came back for you,” Will ventures, considering the unthinkable. “Would you go with her?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer right away. “I would do something much worse,” he admits.

Will isn’t sure what to think of that. “You know I have to ask what happened yesterday.”

“I know.” Hannibal pauses a beat. “The man who drugged me a few days ago, he followed me to your office. He knew. He threatened to blackmail me unless I went with him.”

“You went,” Will says, but his words are automatic.

He’s overwhelmed with the memory of Hannibal inside his office, sickly and tired, but safe. Untouched. Hannibal, smiling and pleased during Murasaki’s going away party, telling Will that he had nothing to worry about. Hannibal, staring at Will with pleading, unnervingly sweet blood colored eyes and vaguely asking for his permission to kill a man.

In this moment, here and now, Will would say yes. His vision flashes red—

_You wouldn’t, no, this isn’t you. It’s Hannibal. Human life is more precious than this._

“I did,” Hannibal says. Will can hardly hear him over the blood rushing in his ears. “Yesterday evening he killed himself.”

“What?” Will says dumbly.

“He overdosed.”

There is a lie in there somewhere. He can sense it.

“No, I don’t believe that.”

Hannibal cocks his head to one side, looking up at him. “You don’t?”

“You were missing all day.” Will pushes him back by the shoulders. He narrows his eyes in suspicion, noting how Hannibal doesn’t react. He’s waiting, listening attentively to Will’s words. “You ignored my calls. When you came back you were happy about something. It wasn’t just the drugs. And I…I saw what you had in your pocket. The handcuffs. What did you do, Hannibal?”

“It would have happened sooner or later,” Hannibal says, trying to appease him. “Considering the odds. I just sped it along.”

“You killed someone,” Will breathes. _Again._

His chest hurts.

“No, I—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Will snarls through clenched teeth. “You know I can tell. _You know._ ”

“He didn’t deserve to live,” Hannibal insists, becoming visibly irritated, impatient. Will stumbles to his feet, backing away until he bumps into a bookshelf. He puts as much distance between them as he can in such a small space. “Do you want to know the things he did? What he would have done to me, given the chance? He won’t be missed.”

“You don’t get to make that decision!” Will shouts. His dogs whimper, but the volume of his voice continues to climb. “ _I told you_ to come to me if you had these thoughts, these feelings, after Francis—”

“I did. I did tell you.”

“But I never said this was okay!”

His voice breaks.

Hannibal looks at him with a deadly calm, rising. There is spite in his words. “I don’t need your permission, Will.”

The next few seconds are a confused blur, a singular thought rooting itself into Will’s feverish brain: _Make him listen._

Reflexes weakened from yesterday, Hannibal is at first helpless when Will wrestles him to the bed. With experience, dumb luck, and blind frustration fueling his success, Will pins him down. He’s too foolish to notice the dangerous gleam in Hannibal’s eyes or the curl of his lip, his bared teeth, until it’s too late. He prepares for excruciating pain, grappling with Hannibal’s shoulders and straining to keep his own neck and face out of reach. He decides, in a moment of clarity, that he deserves to be bitten. This was impulsive. But Hannibal goes rigid beneath him.

The fight slips out of him, tightened muscles going soft. His fingers lose their death grip on Will’s arms. His nails drew only a minimal amount of blood. It wasn’t on purpose. Hannibal won’t hurt Will.

It’s not the first time he’s been submissive in the face of Will’s fury, but it’s the first time Will knows _,_ without a doubt, that he means it.

They breathe heavily in unison, both unwilling to escalate the situation further. What has been their outlet before is unacceptable now.

Will hangs his head in defeat, shying away from the wide eyes that search out his. “I destroyed my boring, safe life, for you,” he says in Hannibal’s ear. “I jeopardized my freedom. My mental health. Probably my soul, if it exists. If I ask you to wait, _Hannibal_ , I need you to wai—” He falters, squeezing his eyes shut.

They’re just empty words.

He wants to cling to his morals like the good person he pretends to be, but he tossed them aside a long time ago.

He wants Hannibal more, has always wanted Hannibal more.

It scares him.

“Please,” Will whispers. “Can you do that for me?”

He feels him nod. A quick thing, just once, and their cheeks brush. He would be an idiot to miss the shudder rolling through the lithe body beneath him, or the excitement that taints the air now that the danger is gone.

“I need you to leave,” Will croaks, not wishing to be cruel, but he _can’t._

“Will—”

“I’ll drop you off at your car, if you can drive it. I’ll pay for a cab if you can’t. But you have to go.”

“Why?”

The question radiates hurt, though Hannibal sounds more dignified than Will has ever managed at any point in his life. He keeps his eyes averted and removes himself, leaving Hannibal sprawled on the mattress where Will tackled him. He rubs at his temples. “Because I don’t—I don’t trust myself when I’m with you.”

The hushed noise of Hannibal slipping out of bed reaches his ears and he chews on his lip. A hand touches the middle of his back, tentative and light. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Will almost bites through the side of his mouth. He whirls around, knocking the arm away. “Hannibal, god damn it, fuck off! Why don’t you listen? I want to be alone!” _If I’m alone I’ll change my mind._

He can’t look at him. He doesn’t check to see if he’s offended him, or worse. He stares at the floor and waits for what feels like forever before Hannibal’s shadow finally moves out of his field of view.

“I understand.”

Like an idiot, he hangs about flexing his fingers while Hannibal dresses, and only lifts his head when footsteps land near the front door.

It’s a torturously slow ride to his office. The static of his radio and the occasional music flitting in and out from a local station doesn’t do anything to fill the chilled air. Hannibal doesn’t talk, and Will’s mouth is dry.

“I’ll see you,” Will says to the closing car door, accidentally making eye contact. Hannibal smiles politely. There is no warmth behind it.

Will makes a stop on the way home, trudging into his house about an hour later with his prize; a bottle.

After making professional apologies and cancelling the rest of his appointments for the day, he drinks. He doesn’t bother with a glass, throwing it back until he eventually passes out in the chair he first dropped into, surrounded by worried dogs that nose at his hands and feet.

He doesn’t have to think if he’s unconscious.

 

* * *

 

He smells Will and his thrusts become more erratic, less controlled. Strands of hair fall over his face and his eyes flutter closed. Only in this moment is his body desperate, or at all interested in his companion beneath him, more a tool for distraction than a worthy partner. The lights are off and only the weakest amount of sunlight can reach their twisted forms through the thick, dark curtains. He prefers this, and Frederick is none the wiser.

Thighs squeeze around his waist and he considers a scenario in which they belong to someone else, canting his hips and drowning in the imagined scent that digs its claws into his flesh, leaving a warm ache in his blood. Not for the first time, his lips try to form the name, but he’s quick-witted enough to choke it back, driving forward with a wordless groan instead. When it ends and the fog clears, Hannibal is left shivering and panting.

The hollow feeling beneath his ribs doesn’t go away.

“Wow,” Frederick says, sounding dazed. “Usually you aren’t so… _that._ What they say about make-up sex must be true.”

Hannibal feels his eyes rolling automatically at Frederick’s babbling. He pulls away with a noncommittal hum, disposing of the condom before dropping tiredly onto the empty side of the bed. He purposefully blocks out the bland, unappealing scent in the air and replaces it with something preferable. It tugs at the bonds tied tight around his emotions, intent on unraveling them, but it will take much more than a vivid imagination and a slight bump in the road with Will to break him down.

He startles out of his dozing when a dip in the mattress lets him know Frederick is closing in. Normally Hannibal allows him his boring show of affection, but today the empty thing wringing at his insides inspires a fresh wave of impatience. He feels a hot breeze against his cheek, senses the fingers spreading over his chest. They haven’t made contact yet, but already he feels caged, held down.

“I missed you, Hannibal.”

Suddenly he feels physically ill. He can only tolerate so much. The heat pressing against his side, daring to touch his exposed skin, pushes him over the edge. He withdraws as if burned.

Frederick stares after him, wide-eyed and grasping at thin air. Being the fool that he is, only then does he seem to understand the situation. His face falls. “What’s wrong?” he asks, still partially in denial. “Say something.”

“Get out,” Hannibal says, struggling to get a grip around the writhing mass inside his stomach.

“Wh— _what?!_ ”

“I would like to be alone now.”

His words reduce Frederick to a stuttering, panicky mess. “Y-you can’t do that!” Frederick shifts under the covers, trying to get closer, but when Hannibal fixes him with a hard look he rethinks his actions and keeps the distance. “You c-can’t call someone and fuck them and kick them out like they’re—like _I’m_ nothing! Are you serious right now?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Hannibal surveys him for a moment longer before he deems it safe to settle down, sinking back into the bed. “Are you really so surprised?” He feels cramped and sore and he wants his space, but Frederick simply glares at him. Hannibal ignores it, turning his entire body away; the perfect picture of rejection. It should get his point across.

Frederick is unusually quiet, but his weight disappears from the mattress and Hannibal can hear him gathering his clothes, fumbling his way into them. Of course, the silence doesn’t last. “You know what, Hannibal?” Frederick waits for an answer. When it doesn’t come, he advances with, “If you just wanted someone to talk to, you could have said so.”

Hannibal wrinkles his nose at that, but Frederick doesn’t need to see him to make his impassioned speech. “Look at you. No wonder you don’t have any real friends. You’re brilliant, and charming when you want to be, talented—but you’re an _asshole._ And _everyone_ knows it. One of these days, if you aren’t careful, you’ll get what’s coming to you.”

“One could argue that I already have,” Hannibal says, unimpressed. Frederick stills behind him.

Hannibal bristles when Frederick walks around to look him in the eye. 

“What happened?” Frederick asks. His tone is less urgent, and considerably less whiny. It would be impressive if his stench wasn’t so upsetting, so different from what Hannibal craves. Will’s attention, his _wrath_ would be more welcome than this pitiful whelp in front of him now. “I saw the bruises, and I wasn’t going to say anything. But I can help you if you let me. If you'd stop being so stubborn.”

Frederick is smiling fondly, trying to take his hand, and the noise Hannibal makes is anything but human. Frederick flinches as if he’s been slapped.

“If you value the bones in your hands,” Hannibal says carefully, quietly, “Incompetent as they are—keep them away from me. Do not touch me. I’ll put an end to your career before you can ruin it with your clumsy fingers and weak stomach.”

Bottom lip trembling fearfully, Frederick tries to talk, but Hannibal speaks over him. “This was a mistake. I won’t ask for your company anymore.”

Frederick jerks his outstretched hand back, tucking it safe under the other. “What is wrong with you? Why are you like this?” he whimpers. He doesn’t move, frozen in humiliation and regret, and a dozen other emotions Hannibal doesn’t have the patience to identify. He supposes Frederick is incapable of making his next decision wisely, so he makes it for him.

“Goodbye, Frederick.”

Distress makes Frederick slow, clumsy. He tries to hurry and it only results in his dropping personal items on the floor. Hannibal stares at the ceiling, listening to the jingle of keys and shoes dragging across the carpet. Frederick stops in the doorway, one foot in the bedroom and the other planted firmly in the living room. “Fine,” he snaps. He looks as if he is considering crying, if it will get him anywhere. “Lie there and mope around in the dark, see if I care. See if anyone does. Nobody else loves you.”

Hannibal stretches languidly, showing off what he knows must make a tempting sight, what Frederick will never feel under, or on top of him again. “Don’t be so dramatic, Frederick. You don’t love me. I’m an achievement you’ve tried to place on a high shelf to soothe the undeserved, enormous ego you possess. Frankly, the closest you will ever come to greatness is in my bed.”

“You’re such a bitch! And a narcissist!”

Frederick storms off, and his door finally slams shut.

When he’s certain Frederick won’t come wailing back, at least not today, he locks himself inside the bathroom and submerges his body in scalding hot water. His eyes sting.

The haunting aroma of cheap whiskey fills the room like a mist. Resolve crumbling, he sinks deeper into the tub and lets his hand wander between his legs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know, it's the question we are all asking, teetering on the edge of our seats: YES, the handcuffs will be back


	14. Chapter 14

A grey blanket covers the expanse of the sky, suggesting a light rain. Hannibal lounges on the park bench and stretches out his legs, taking shelter under an old oak tree that miraculously still has a few stubborn leaves left on its limbs. He observes his surroundings halfheartedly, less vigilant than usual as he digs the toe of his shoe into the snow and dirty slush on the ground, kicking up a mild and unsatisfactory spray. Days have passed since he kicked Frederick out of his suite, and Frederick has since stopped calling.

Yesterday Lady Murasaki left the country. She left a voicemail, knowing when he would likely be preoccupied and when she might avoid speaking to him directly. She said that the house was his to keep. It’s a thoughtful parting gift, especially compared to the previous attempt, but he hasn’t claimed it yet. His eyes have been glued to the screen since he discovered the missed call, his fingers poised to type but never doing so. It isn’t Murasaki he longs to speak with.

_‘I have loved her always, I did whatever she asked of me, and now she wants to leave me and all we shared and made here together for a stranger.’_

_‘Hurts, doesn’t it?’_

Surprisingly, no.

_‘You desire her perhaps, but that isn’t love. What you feel is possession. Obsession.’_

Could he have been so misguided?

The silent treatment he’s getting from Will agitates Hannibal more than his beloved aunt fleeing from him.  

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say someone ripped out your heart and stepped all over it.” Margot Verger’s calm, purring voice floats across the gap between them as she joins him on the bench.

Hannibal doesn’t smile. He’s slightly irked.

“You seemed lost in thought,” she explains while folding her arms, tugging her coat tighter around her small frame. The haunted look that follows her like a second shadow is missing, replaced with something giddy. Her eyes are bright and full of hope. “Something is bothering you. It’s not _Frederick_ , is it? I thought he left. The story is you broke his heart. As if that doesn’t happen every day. But, and I’m sorry, you look kind of defeated.”

Hannibal’s fingers twitch in his pockets. Frederick’s name leaves an offensive taste in his mouth and he barely refrains from wrinkling his nose. “You asked for me?”

Margot looks down, patting at her knees thoughtfully, as if she might find the right words there. “I wanted to thank you. So, thank you, Hannibal.”

Short and sweet. He lets his shoulders drop and the tension quickly eases out of him despite the biting cold. Gaining some semblance of control over himself, he says with a hint of fondness, “It was my pleasure, Margot.”

She wipes at her eye, but she doesn’t break. “I started laughing when I found him, if I’m being honest with you. I got dizzy and I felt weightless. Happy. I couldn’t stand up. It was _exhilarating._  Thank you,” she says again, a lovely smile tugging at the corners of her red lips. “You’ve been a brother to me.”

Hannibal accepts the praise as graciously as he can and turns his attention to the soundless drizzle of freezing rain, musing and absently stroking the smooth screen of his phone hidden in his pocket.

Despite Margot’s comforting presence, he can’t shake the creeping sensation of eyes scoring over his back. His heightened senses are on full alert. Francis and Mischa are silent—they haven’t made an appearance since before Mason’s unfortunate little accident. No, it’s Will’s ghostlike, whiskey-tinged scent that torments him these days. But he doesn’t smell alcohol or wet dog on the wind. And if the culprit isn’t Francis and it isn’t Mischa, or _Will_ , then they are currently being watched.

Normally he trusts his instincts without question, but save for himself and Margot, the park is empty. For a fleeting moment he wonders if Margot set him up. A curious look at her distant expression and relaxed body language proves him wrong. She’s content, utterly lost in the now radiant world around her. A life without Mason. She can’t quite believe her luck.

Hannibal politely insists on walking Margot to her car. He keeps his suspicions to himself. 

 

* * *

 

Drinking turns out to be just as counterproductive as Will knows it to be. When he’s conscious, he’s easily sick and disoriented and disturbed. His clothes are wrinkled and dark circles reside under his eyes, which he hides from his patients by keeping the lighting in his office remarkably dim. The lit fireplace casts exaggerated shadows over his face and disguises his exhaustion. No one cares to question it, and he makes himself as helpful as possible. He does his job better than he has in weeks. He steps into their shoes with an eagerness that doesn't come to him naturally, happy to do it if it will take away the whirlwind of chaos eating at his nerves, if only for a while. With his patients satisfied, he goes home to feed his dogs and focuses on _their_ needs. He forgets about his own.

Dante conveniently forgets the commands Will taught him, and the more hardheaded dogs follow the puppy’s lead. Will tries to quickly correct the bad behavior spreading through the pack but the border collie, being the smartest of the bunch, knows he’s off his game. When Will sits in his chair with a glass of whiskey and a lap full of work that will stay unfinished, Dante watches him. He watches until Will nods off. When Will comes to, he can hear someone nosing through the trash and shoving cabinets open, inadvertently slamming them with their muzzle and making a lot of noise. Twice so far, he’s caught the freckled pup dropping into his breed’s famous crawl and stalking across the yard, getting alarmingly close to a bulky squirrel the rest of his dogs have never managed to catch. They’ve been far too busy barking themselves hoarse at the trees to stop and consider that it might not come wandering down into their open mouths. Dante almost catches it and it nearly gives Will a heart attack because he doesn’t have the time to nurse a chewed-up squirrel back to health.

It’s something he thinks Hannibal would find amusing, but Will doesn’t pick up the phone. He doesn’t even try, and yet he's disappointed when he never receives a call or a message first. Not that he would deserve one, considering he’s trying with all his might to be furious with him, but he isn’t at all confident he could ignore Hannibal if the boy spoke to him.

That intoxicating smoke smell has faded from the bed sheets, but that never stops Will from finding it in his dreams and sniffing himself awake at night when the alcohol wears off and he discovers his arms are wrapped tight around a pillow that does a piss poor job of imitating a human body. The emptiness of his bed and the ache inside his chest is unbearable. With his face pressed into the mattress, he sighs heavily, unable to ignore the knowledge that no, he doesn’t care what Hannibal did. It was justified. Both times. But that scares him. What does it say about Will that he’s so desperate to look the other way, _again?_ How can he think that human life, no matter how disgusting the individual, is worth so little? He knows he can’t trust Hannibal to keep his word again. He’d find a way around it. He’s too clever, stubborn like that damn dog Will can hear jumping on the kitchen table. His voice is muffled by sheets but his scolding is loud enough to earn him the satisfying sound of paws landing safely on a chair, then the floor. He swears Dante is half cat.

 _Why_ is Will fighting so hard?

Part of him insists this would all go away if he just gives Hannibal what he wants. Be used, enjoy what he can, and wait for Hannibal to get bored. It won’t be fun anymore if Will doesn’t resist, right? They can both be selfish. Use each other. Then it will end, as it should. He should have done it ages ago. Will can resume his sad, lonely life in the woods and Hannibal—Hannibal can fuck off somewhere else. _With someone else_ , Will adds, feeling bitter. He’ll grieve and drown in the good memories they did share, if he can survive the initial loss.

He lies awake and unmoving until the sky turns pink and gold and the sun shines down on his misery. He stays sober long enough to drive himself to meet his new psychiatrist. He made the appointment the morning after his meltdown, when he was first riddled with indecision and before he could change his mind. Now he’s too tired to take it back. He might as well go through with it.

The address Alana included with the phone number leads him to a house so modern and not-quite-minimalist that it could just as easily pass as an office. He takes the time to study the looming stone pillars as he wanders up the steps, carefully. He doesn’t want to slip on the thin sheet of ice and break something. It would make for a horrible introduction, but it’s probably better than anything he’ll manage with his stupid mouth. He pushes the doorbell and turns his head to sniff at his shirt collar under his coat, a last-minute check for any lingering smell of alcohol or dog.

Bedelia Du Maurier isn’t what he expected.

He shouldn’t have expected anything. Despite the familiar ring of her name, they haven’t met. It surprises him when the door swings open to reveal an attractive woman a few years younger than him, flashing him a laid-back smile just before glacier colored eyes drift over him in a quick examination, taking no longer than a second or two to complete. Her smile widens but it never reaches her eyes, which stay cold. She steps away and holds the door.

“Doctor Graham, good morning. Please come inside. You must be freezing.”

Her voice is pleasant, smooth like velvet. To Will she seems a bit too careful with her words, which leads him to believe she has either overcome a speech impediment or an accent. Or she might be on drugs. He didn’t notice over the phone. He blinks and tries, unsuccessfully, to shrug off his natural inclination to observe, dipping his head slightly in acknowledgement. He finds himself eye level with an impressive string of pearls around her neck.

She escorts him to the living area, where the light pouring in through the window nearly blinds him. He takes a seat in one of the two blue chairs, facing away from the window. His eyes adjust in time to see her take the other, crossing one shapely leg over the other. Will looks, he thinks politely, at the carpet.

“Alana told me about you,” Du Maurier says. “Good things,” she adds, when Will lifts his head. “She still considers you a friend. You should know I haven’t seen a patient in years, not after I was attacked. But I’m happy to help. Whatever is said between us reaches no one else’s ears.”

Alana neglected to mention any of this. Perhaps the attack is why the name Du Maurier sounds so familiar. He might have heard about it. “I’ve had a patient pull a gun on me, so I'll understand if this makes you uncomfortable,” he reasons.

“I assure you, I will be fine,” she says.

He starts to suspect she might be doing this purely out of professional interest. But he trusts, or he hopes, that Alana wouldn’t mention his empathy.

He breezes through the basic questions; his mood, any preexisting medical conditions or history of mental illness—he keeps that vague—or past experiences that might contribute to his current state of mind. He hates the process, but he finds himself speaking more openly than he did with his previous psychiatrist. His patience is worn and like Will, Du Maurier doesn’t coddle. She doesn’t smile and nod along, or try to redirect the conversation when it gets awkward or quiet, instead preferring for Will to decide where to take lead them. She listens but she doesn’t take notes. He isn’t _pleased_ , but their game of ‘ask a question, answer’ is welcome distraction.

Until they get to the heart of the issue.

It’s _why_ Alana suggested this, after all.

“There is someone,” Will admits lamely. He feels relieved when Du Maurier doesn’t give him a condescending smile. Her face is mercifully blank. “It’s difficult for me to maintain close relationships, or relationships in general. If you can believe it.” _Because I’m such a charmer._

“You’ve made an exception.”

If he wasn’t so tired, he might be more reluctant to talk about it. “Yes.”

“But there is a problem,” she prompts.

She seems eager. To be fair, he’s finally mentioning something interesting.

“Oh yeah, he drives me up the fucking wall,” Will snorts, and he almost rolls his eyes at himself. His manners have always been poor, but apparently he’s been out of practice for far too long. “Sorry.”

“I don’t mind the swearing. Tell me about this man.”

His eyes drift to the floor again. “Well, he’s younger than me, so you’d think there would be a disconnect, but there really isn’t. I’m willing to admit he’s more… _experienced_ ,” Will says carefully, not risking a glance up to see if she needs clarification. “So if anyone is playing catch-up, it’s me. And yet he’s also ridiculously naïve, but his line of reasoning is straightforward and it works. If he wants something, he takes it. It’s tempting, but it’s not a path I can walk down in good conscience. His blatant disregard for others isn’t something I can…I can’t do that.”

Honestly, there’s no way she understands where he’s going with this, but she doesn’t push.

“I can’t let go of him, either.” He holds in the sigh straining his lungs. “I don’t have anything to lose and it’s far too late to get out completely unscathed. So I’ve wondered, why shouldn’t I enjoy myself? Fuck the consequences. Why can’t I have this, why does everyone else get to be happy? It’ll probably kill me in the end, or I’ll wish I was dead, but at least I’d know. What it was like.”

“What would make you happy, Doctor Graham?”

His shoulders shrug before he gives them permission. “I don’t get to be happy. That isn’t how my brain is wired. It’s not surprising I fell in love with what I shouldn’t have and can’t keep.”

His throat tightens and his words evaporate. Did he really say that?

He hadn’t even admitted it to himself before now. “It—it wouldn’t be right, anyway—”

Du Maurier interrupts him with a stern, “I didn’t ask you what you thought was right.” She leans forward in her seat. Her movements are unhurried, giving him plenty of time to panic before she continues. “I asked, what would make you happy? In this moment. Not in the future, but here and now. If there were no consequences.”  

He wets his lips. “I want…I want to give in. Before I get back to worrying about morality and being miserable for the rest of my life.”

“Do it,” she says, smiling again at last. It still doesn’t reach her eyes.

He huffs. “You’re supposed to talk me out of it.”

“No, Doctor Graham, I’m _supposed_ to help you realize what it is you want, so that you may take it. The sooner you realize you are in complete control of how you _react_ to any given situation, the happier you will be. Treat this as a learning experience. You have the right idea, but your attitude needs some adjusting.”

He thinks he can smell the alcohol sweating through his skin, though he’s been sober for hours. “You remind me of someone,” he admits reluctantly. She must have made a very unorthodox psychiatrist.

Outlined in dark, heavy makeup, her icy stare is intense, a sharp edge in comparison to her softer facial features. She doesn’t respond right away, twisting at the pearls around her throat before she pushes the wavy mess of her dark brown hair over her shoulder. Her bangs fall uneven across her forehead.

“You’ll have to tell me about them sometime,” she says.

 

* * *

 

No other suspicious activity occurs, so Hannibal considers the incident in the park the least of his concerns. He focuses on his studies, as well as each and every notification that pops up on his phone throughout the rest of the day and into the night.

He sits cross-legged on the floor of the living area in his suite, dressed in an oversized sweater and flannel pajama pants with his back pressed to the edge of the sofa and a heavy book spread out in his lap. A few more open books lie scattered around him. Beside him, a nearly empty glass and a half full bottle of wine serve as an incentive to avoid checking his phone, meant to reward him for reading without interruption. Originally, he was saving it for a special occasion. With Frederick gone, Margot contemplating moving out of the city for a fresh start, and Will angry with him—and Mischa and Francis unwilling to show themselves—he truthfully didn’t see an opportunity presenting itself anytime soon.

His cheeks feel flushed, but he’s been studying for hours and working slowly enough that he is only pleasantly warm, nothing beyond tipsy. Suddenly impatient, he picks up his phone and manually turns off the notifications for every app except his messages.

Usually he has more self-discipline than this. He refills his wine glass and inhales quietly, tasting the sweet scent of it before downing most of the contents in a few gulps. Eyes closing, he tilts his head back and breathes deeply. He allowed himself his obsessions before, all for fun. But this is no longer fun, losing sleep and ruining his concentration because of one man who smells like dog and reeks of the river after weekends and resembles a Hellenistic period sculpture during sleep, muscle and skin smooth as marble and curls wild, beautiful and perfect in his imperfection. Hannibal is attracted to Will’s feisty and irritable nature, but asleep the man transforms into something that begs to be cherished and held.  

Hannibal stretches. Frederick’s touch had angered him that day. He had been impulsive. It wasn’t what he wanted, and in the aftermath he thought briefly of Mason and he suffered a wave of panic for it, and his own weakness frustrated him more. And of course, he thought of Will, and the hollowness in his chest that Frederick couldn’t possibly fill.

_‘You know what, Hannibal? If you just wanted someone to talk to, you could have said so.’_

He doesn’t want to _talk._

Humming sounds muffled against the carpet pull him out of his reflection. He opens his eyes and reaches for the vibrating phone, almost hesitant.

 **[Frederick]** _I have a gift for you._

No sooner has he read the message before someone is knocking on his door.

Frederick supposedly left town, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.

Hannibal considers ignoring it. When the knocks persist, he pushes himself to stand on unsteady bare feet, giving the door such a nasty look that he’s almost surprised it doesn’t burn through the wood. He opens it.

Frederick is nowhere to be seen. On the floor lies an unmarked box, gift-wrapped.

It wouldn’t be the first time Frederick has tried to appeal to his materialism, but normally he waits at the door, eager to see Hannibal's nonexistent reaction. The gifts prove just how little he understands Hannibal’s tastes and interests. At least Anthony’s presents are spur of the moment, meaningless little trinkets that Hannibal accepts because it's part of Anthony’s charm.  

He doesn’t know what inspires him to bring the package inside. He sets the box down in the kitchen and unties the ribbon. As lifts the lid he expects to be overwhelmingly underwhelmed. 

The strong scent of blood and the first stages of decay hit him long before he completely removes the lid. He sets it aside slowly.

He leaves the box and returns a minute later with latex gloves, reaching in to pick up a human heart roughly the size of his fist.

He’s mostly unaffected, simply processing, when he investigates the precise incision leading into the right ventricle. He assumes this must be an angry joke of Frederick’s, although it's surprisingly risky. His fingers close around something hard and round, like a small bead. He pulls out a string of stained pearls and he promptly drops everything he's holding, taking several steps back until his shoulders hit a wall hard enough to bruise. He keeps his arms stiff at his sides, gloved hands not touching anything, covered in blood.

The mocking, girlish laughter ringing in his ears is a memory.

Fingers threading through his hair, coming to rest at the base of his skull and wrapping possessively around his neck. A palm stretched out in front of him, offering treasure. A soft kiss on his cheek, her face smeared against his.

He flinches.

_‘Look, Hannibal, Mama’s pearls!’_

As the initial shock wears off, he realizes he's trembling. His phone vibrates violently against the table and he walks up to it, looking down at the message, but it’s just a fellow student asking for a tutoring session.

He scoops up the discarded pearls and stares at the pile of them in his hand, methodically peeling back the layers of his memory. He spares a glance at the human heart, now reduced to a lump of meat, and allows himself to feel guilt, and perhaps a slight pang of loss.

“I’m sorry, Frederick,” he says, fighting off the urge to throw up. 

His quivering is from excitement, but Mischa’s timing couldn’t be worse. His stomach lurches at the thought of Will being a part of their game.

 

* * *

 

Thanks to his visit Doctor Du Maurier, the crushing weight on Will’s shoulders has been lifted. In the face of brewing imminent disaster, he finds himself sitting happily on the front porch of his house, bundled up and braving the cold winds with a generous amount of whiskey. He watches his dogs wrestle and play in the snow. He’ll need to dry and warm their paws before they come inside for the night.

His phone starts ringing and he frantically fishes for it, an invisible force squeezing around his middle and rendering him breathless. He knew already, but his heart still skips a beat when he reads the name on the screen. He answers automatically.

“Our appointment is in a couple days,” he says, wincing at the heaviness of his tongue. 

“I want to see you.”

Something in his voice makes Will lean forward.

He blanches. “Now?”

“Now, Will.”

He could say no. He can mourn the jagged, gaping hole it’ll leave in his chest and his life can go back to the way it was before Hannibal.

Or he can take the plunge.

“Where?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> something warm and sweet next time, trust me


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sex. that's it
> 
> recap: mischa is alive, frederick is dead (rip), hannibal feels at least somewhat guilty about it and is worried sick for will's safety, and an oblivious as fuck will graham had a therapy session with “bedelia,” who convinced him he can do whatever the fuck he wants, which is hannibal, and these two have no motivation to be honest with each another because it ended so poorly last time
> 
> enjoy!

‘Suspicious’ doesn’t begin to cover it.

But being as buzzed as he was, Will wrote down the address of the hotel without question. That it wasn’t anywhere near Baltimore or Wolf Trap didn’t occur to him until later, as he sobered up. He patted each of his dogs’ heads and dried their snow-covered feet before he left, so he’s confident that they’ll be fine. After a shower and a quick stop on the way that leaves him feeling conflicted, he steps out of the cab and stares stupidly at the nice hotel in front of him. It has a rooftop bar and lounge. It’s completely unnecessary and it makes him feel all kinds of guilty, even if this wasn’t his idea.

Why would Hannibal insist they meet here of all places, and arrive separately? The bus ride was miserable enough, and the cab was kind of pricey. What’s wrong with his house? Did Hannibal spend all this for half a night? And how? How much did it cost? Would he accept Will’s money if he offered? He can’t stand handouts and so rarely has he been spoiled, he really shouldn’t accept this sort of treatment from an eighteen-year-old kid, loaded or not.

The room is empty, but there’s a familiar-looking leather satchel sitting on a bed and heat seeps out from the humid bathroom. The shower is still wet. Will follows the scent of charred, blackened wood and bone to the roof. He slips easily through the dwindling crowd until he spots an unmistakable figure overlooking the shimmering city lights below, playing with the stem of a glass between his fingers. Will knows the exact moment Hannibal smells him approaching, when his back and shoulders tense in the slightest, and release in recognition.

After settling beside him, Will’s automatic, somewhat dopey smile turns questioning. “Of course you’d have a fake ID,” he says playfully, wondering how to broach the subject of their last meeting, or if he should at all. Should he apologize? Should he say _anything?_

It earns him the barest hint of a smile from Hannibal. The changing lights bounce off fanglike teeth before disappearing behind his lips. “Hello, Will.”

He pushes the glass away, nostrils flaring as he takes in the underlying stench of alcohol radiating from his psychiatrist’s pores, despite his skin being scrubbed raw hours ago. What little courage Will had dissipates.

“It’s good to see you,” Hannibal says.

Will doesn’t blink. “You haven’t even looked at me,” he says plainly.

Eyes lock onto his and Will recognizes the thinly veiled panic beneath the darkness, a far cry from what he saw that stormy night Hannibal appeared dripping wet and frantic on Will’s doorstep, but there is something similar about it. He takes Will in from head to toe, who shifts uncomfortably under the wave of heat it inspires. “I hardly need to,” Hannibal says, either mimicking Will’s dead tone or genuinely indifferent. “Anyone could smell you.”

That stings. Whatever he’s playing at, Will isn’t here for it.

He straightens and turns to leave, though it’s mostly a bluff, and Hannibal behaves predictably, grabbing Will’s wrist. “I wanted to look at you,” he explains. “I needed to, I suspected you weren’t taking care of yourself.” He raises his eyebrows meaningfully, as if to say, _I was right._

He can’t fool Will that easily. “That's not why you wanted to see me. I know that look, and it never means anything good. So what did you do?” He doubts himself when Hannibal snorts, releasing Will’s wrist and shoving it away. He’s actually upset, and that worries Will more than any visible cut or bruise would. “Wait,” he says, his heart lunging into his throat. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—what I said before, I was upset when I said it. You’re supposed to talk to me and I’m supposed to listen. I wasn’t listening.”

If he takes Du Maurier’s advice, he shouldn’t be asking questions, or apologizing. He’s supposed to be willfully ignorant. But it itches at the base of his skull. Why are they _here?_

Hannibal must sense that Will is thinking too hard, because his sharp edges soften. Without warning, he leans into the charged space between them and presses his flushed face into Will’s throat. Will freezes as if his life depends on it, mentally cursing the excitement that pools into his belly, his body betraying him as he feels himself swaying closer.

“You’re drunk,” he reasons.

“No,” Hannibal says. His voice sounds muffled. “I’m not, Will. I’m not anything. I lied. You smell very, very good to me.”

Curious eyes gawk at them and it angers Will, although he supposes they do make an unusual sight, public displays of affection aside. Noticing his irritation, Hannibal lifts his head to speak quickly in Will’s ear before he withdraws.

“Come with me?”

Will’s skin crawls in a good way, his head going fuzzy as fingers slot between his and lead him toward the elevator and down a few floors. He supposes Lady Murasaki isn’t going to magically appear to interrupt them this time around. _It_ is happening tonight, he’s almost certain, and he is surprisingly okay with that. It doesn’t matter if Will is just a source of entertainment for Hannibal, or something more, because when it all comes to an end at least he’ll have this.

Remember this.

 

* * *

 

Hearts thrum together and the deafening rush of blood drowns out the sound of heavy breathing. In the golden lamplight, blood colored eyes melt into deep amber, the color of whiskey or honey. Will surges forward to connect their mouths, backing Hannibal against the door before it can properly shut, and it slams closed. He tastes like pink wine and something else sparkling and sweet. He tastes like hunger and thirst and bursting satisfaction. Will stops breathing in favor of swallowing the pleased sounds that a lesser man would take for granted, and a better man would resist.

He’s light-headed and huffing when fingers seize his curls and yank his head back, baring his throat. While he recovers from the pain, teeth latch onto skin and suck, scattering bruises across his neck and just beneath his jaw, possessive and sharp. He sheds his coat onto the floor. By the time also frees Hannibal from his outermost layers, the bites are replaced with careful, doting kisses, slowly migrating back to Will’s mouth. His eyes flutter closed at the memory that washes over him, of a kiss pressed to the corner of his mouth and the loneliness following that feather-light touch. He feels oddly sentimental, remembering it, no matter how emotionally exhausting all of it has been. Hands frame his face and his cheek is kissed softly, his forehead, his nose, everywhere until his eyes open and drink in gold blood.

Something’s different.

Dropping his arms to wrap around Hannibal’s waist, Will briefly lifts him off the ground and turns them around, ignoring Hannibal’s huff of surprise. Will walks him backwards to the closest of the two beds, keeping his hand flat against Hannibal’s lower back as they sink onto the mattress. Will blankets him. He reaches underneath the boy’s sweater and warms his palm by stroking already heated skin, absolutely thrilled when muscles tighten reflexively under his fingers. He diverts his attention to Hannibal’s unmarked throat, filled with purpose. It’s only fair that they match, that _he_ puts those marks on Hannibal’s skin now, not everyone else.

He figures he must be doing a good job when Hannibal throws his head back, but it’s out of distraction rather than desire. His eyes are fixed on the other side of the room, on the window that takes up an entire wall and the bright, seemingly endless city lights and the thriving night life beyond it. “Please, close the curtains.”

“I don’t think anyone can see us,” Will says, but the way Hannibal stiffens beneath him convinces him to stand up and pull the curtains closed as Hannibal asked.

He ultimately decides not to pry at this newly developed insecurity, returning to Hannibal’s side and helping him sit up so Will can claim his mouth some more. Whatever was wrong, closing the curtains seems to have solved it. Tongues collide, teeth nip and pull. He startles at the demanding touch at the front of his pants, investigative and teasing when skilled fingers find the half-hard outline of his cock. He fidgets slightly, distracted from their kissing, but Hannibal lures him back with a bite. He kneads him through his clothes and Will lets out an undignified groan.

"I know I said,” he starts, breaking off to grit his teeth at the delicious sound of a zipper being pulled down, and the bossy way Hannibal stuffs his hand inside. One layer to go. “I know that I said I would never fuck you,” Will spits out, determined to stay on track, but that’s difficult to do with continuous tugging and squeezing around his thickening member. Why did he ever say that bullshit?

Hannibal acknowledges this with a suggestion, murmuring helpfully into Will’s mouth, “I could fuck you.”

Though the words make him blush and his gift provides a detailed illustration, Will shakes his head. “No, I need to tell you. Before I came here. I was—I was a bit presumptuous, okay?” he says, defensive. Hannibal merely tilts his head.

Reluctantly, Will disentangles himself to dig through the pockets of his discarded coat. He comes back with condoms and a small tube of lubricant, an impulsive purchase he made on his way to the hotel, and more than just a bit presumptuous. He can’t imagine Hannibal saying no, but he wouldn’t put it past him to leap at the opportunity to fuck with Will’s head.

He prepares himself for the sting of rejection, but after a stunned silence Hannibal honest-to-god _laughs._ Rasping and unrestrained, beautifully crooked smile and all. Will has never heard it, not like that.

He tosses the items on the bed and kisses him quiet.

When it comes to undressing, Will is efficient. He’s naked fast and his clothes are spread out all over the place, his boxers draped over the flat screen television where they landed. Hannibal, however, won’t be rushed, and Will is somewhat ashamed to note that his mouth literally waters as he watches him undress. He can’t help but touch skin as it’s revealed, memorizing the curves and how it feels and flushes against his lips, but he loses his patience when one last piece of fabric separates them. He urges Hannibal to lift his hips and it’s gone, no more barriers, Will is climbing onto the bed and lying between soft thighs, home, happily inhaling smoke from a fire that doesn’t exist. The reunion of their bare bodies makes his heart sing, so familiar that it hurts. And he can _see_ , his eyes are devouring Hannibal whole, not simply teased with limited glimpses during a lightning storm. Hannibal murmurs Will’s name and it sounds like dripping honey, tastes like sugar. Will rocks his hips and Hannibal arches to meet him, their erections trapped between bellies that grow sticky and slick as they grind against each other, searching for friction. He doesn’t need anything else, this is good, but he wants more.

Just when he’s ready, Hannibal stops him. “Wait, Will, we don’t need to do this.”

Will hopes he doesn’t look too disappointed. “I’m sorry, what?”

Hannibal blinks slowly. “I’m afraid you only want this now because I’ve broken you, and I don’t…” He averts his gaze. “I no longer wish to break you. I want you whole.”

He did break him, but Will has never felt so free, and is it denial if he just doesn’t care? “Forget what I said before,” he sighs, dipping his head. “I wanted you. I still want you. You know, I know, it’s been no secret. I was done, the second you walked into my office with those eyes,” he pauses to kiss Hannibal’s forehead. “Like fire. Everything about you is fire. You’re intimidating and beautiful, and sometimes just I can’t breathe. It feels like it’s killing me. And you’re a total pain in the ass to put out.” He considers mentioning Hannibal’s lovely backside, how much he’s pined for it, but decides not to. His speech is ineloquent enough already and he’s lucky Hannibal hasn’t snorted at it. “Haven’t you tortured me long enough? No more games, Hannibal. If you’ll have me, I’m saying yes. _Yes_ , you hear? I want this. Despite everything I know, this is what I want. I need you.”

Hannibal’s eyes shimmer with strong emotion and Will doesn’t know whether to call him dramatic or embrace him and squeeze him tight, because this reaction scares the hell out of Will.

Does Hannibal…feel something for him?

He swallows while Hannibal parts his kiss-swollen lips, letting out a deep breath that brings them closer—followed by a quiet gasp of longing that summons an equally compelling ache in Will’s chest. “ _Will._ ”

Happiness, that’s what this is.

This is the worst—and absolute _best_ —decision he has ever made. He makes a mental note to thank Doctor Du Maurier during their next appointment.

In between hurried kisses he drizzles the lube over his fingers. Ignoring Hannibal’s weak huff of surprise, he grabs Hannibal’s ass and clutches the plump flesh with one hand, a bit greedily, while the other dips between smooth cheeks to distribute shockingly cold slick in slow, teasing strokes. He likes the way Hannibal clings to him. He presses his mouth to the boy’s head to hide his selfish satisfaction when Hannibal curls his lip as Will breaches him, massaging and curving, dragging upon exit, until he manages to get two fingers inside in a short time, knuckle-deep, and Hannibal is chasing the mock thrusts Will makes with his fingers and is beyond fed up with him. He snakes his hand between them to grasp Will’s leaking cock and gently squeeze the swollen, sensitive head, his thumb smearing the glistening beads that have gathered there. He does something wonderful with his wrist on an upward stroke and Will curls in on himself, just barely stopping Hannibal’s hand in time.

“ _Now_ , Will,” Hannibal says, insistent.

A strangled “yes” is all Will can muster. Right now, if Hannibal asked him to kill a man, he’d seriously consider it.

He rips open the wrapper with his teeth and rolls the condom on, being generous with the lubricant because he doesn’t think he has the self-control to stop once they get going, and that’s when he starts getting cold feet. He understands the mechanics, but sex with another man is still uncharted territory. It doesn’t help that Hannibal has a long line of past lovers and sexual experiences to compare this to.

What if Will is mediocre at best? Empathy can only help him so much.

He bites his lip, hesitating as he lines himself up. “Tell me if I do something wrong.”  

“Doctor Graham, not to be vulgar, but if you don’t fuck me _right now_ —”

He pushes in and the action squeezes his lungs dry. He almost doesn’t hear the pleased sigh at the end of Hannibal’s threat over his own surprised grunt. He grabs Hannibal by his hips and drags him closer, shoving his legs further apart so Will can push forward and bury himself completely. It makes his brain short circuit. He stills and his chest heaves and he can’t move, not until a thumb touches his lips and traces his jawline. He stares at the place where they are joined, eyes heavy and burning, as he periodically pulls out and pushes back in, setting a clumsy but ceaseless pace. Hands tug him down into an open-mouthed kiss, forcing him to look at Hannibal, who isn’t smirking or smug, but blushing and unusually quiet. When he angles his hips to get a rise out of him and Hannibal’s eyes slide shut, he’s near bursting with pride. Pleasure builds as thighs surround his waist and tighten around him, Hannibal’s cock digging into Will’s stomach. He thrusts faster, harder, but still no sounds. He recalls how Hannibal’s eyes had blazed with want, and quickly wraps his hand around Hannibal’s bared neck. The pressure is slight, but Hannibal responds enthusiastically, coming to life with a sharp inhale and a low purr, the humming in his throat vibrating against Will’s palm. He places his hand over Will’s and their eyes meet.

Will sees everything.

He feels the ghost of hands at his own throat, nonexistent, and Hannibal’s ecstasy bleeds into his own. He’s suffocating, but he can’t figure out what's weighing him down, it’s buried too deep, and it hurts. A grip on his upper arm jars him, brings him back into his body, blinking rapidly. Hannibal reaches up to run his fingers through Will’s wet hair, rubbing at the creases in his forehead until they disappear. When Hannibal speaks his voice is husky and his accent is thicker than it was before, full of hunger.  

“Let me ride you.”

Their separation is just long enough for Will to settle on his back and gulp down a few much-needed breaths before Hannibal straddles him and presses his palm flat to Will’s chest, directly over his palpitating heart. Heat fills his face and makes him dizzy as his cock is guided back toward slick warmth and Hannibal sinks down into Will’s lap, taking all of him, thighs trembling when Will grabs hold of them. He turns his head and presses his cheek into cool sheets, his hands drifting upward to trace hipbones and a smiling scar as Hannibal lifts himself and descends again, coaxing a deep groan from Will. He forces his eyes open, determined to witness the uneven rise and fall of Hannibal’s chest, listening to quickened breathing. He watches Hannibal fuck himself and fail to contain the emotions flitting across his face, the agonizing need to fill the hollow ache inside of him with Will, and his endless fascination regarding it. Will watches, mesmerized by the soft moans that slip past slightly parted lips.  

And then Hannibal says something somewhat upsetting.

“Is this how it’s supposed to feel?” he asks, awed.

Will isn’t entirely sure Hannibal meant for him to hear that, and he can’t decide whether he should laugh or cry because he knows exactly what Hannibal is talking about.

Using his elbows and forearms, he pushes himself to sit up, pulling the boy close. He wraps an arm around Hannibal’s waist at the same time he feels a hand cradle the back of his head. He lets himself be drawn into an easily distracted kiss filled with appreciative gasps as Will’s hips stutter and hit that sweet spot while he strokes Hannibal’s neglected cock. The conflicted, urgent thrusts into Will’s closed fist and the desperate rocking in his lap convinces him to hurry.

Hannibal’s breath is hot against Will’s throat. “ _Mon chéri_ , I want to keep you. What can I do?”

Well, he can decipher that code later. “Come for me,” Will says. “Together, come on, baby.”

“ _Will._ ”

The exclamation in French might be his imagination, but when Hannibal climaxes it stains their stomachs and coats Will’s fingers, as tangible and real as the involuntary spasming around him that tips him over the edge. He wants to see Hannibal’s face, but it’s enough that he cried out for Will, just Will…

Blinding euphoria melts into the sharp sting of overstimulation, paralyzing them both. Muscles burn from overexertion and Hannibal twitches occasionally, his head resting heavily on Will’s shoulder, and Will isn’t ready for its absence, so he doesn’t move. He supposes he could have said something much more embarrassing and dangerous, like ‘ _I love you.’_

As the sweat dries on their skin they tremble from cold, not aftershocks, and he grows soft. He nudges the boy in his lap and suggests that they clean up, savoring the way Hannibal winces when they part. Will stumbles into the bathroom and ignores his wrecked reflection, dropping the condom in the trash bin. He brings a warm damp cloth back with him to wipe them both down. It gets tossed carelessly in the floor with everything else. He flicks the beside lamp off and the room is immediately shrouded in darkness, save for the sliver of light that filters through the break in the curtains.

Police sirens in the distance and the hum of the highway make up the harmless white noise in the following silence. The weight on the bed shifts until fingers touch his and it startles him at first, but they rub warmth into his skin and travel up his arms and his shoulders, soothing his aching muscles. Will wonders how well Hannibal can see in the dark because breath tickles his cheek and lips easily find their way to his mouth, so he reaches out to explore with his own hands, smoothing over Hannibal’s throat and feeling him swallow dryly.

Will follows the gentle care down under the covers, limbs draping over and tangling with his. He’s never slept so closely intertwined with another person. And Hannibal won’t stop kissing him, despite their mutual exhaustion.

Definitely, something’s different.

He whispers, when he can, “Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” but Hannibal is fast asleep, his face buried again in Will’s neck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m so tired of typing the word “cock” but i finally got to use “baby” and oh, i feel triumphant


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to kick my ass for the delay.

When he dreams of Lithuania, the birds won’t sing for him. The good, warm memories are tainted by the promise of death he tastes on the wind, and the eerie quiet in the late spring is broken only by thunderous echoes that root into the ground and shake the earth, followed by lifeless silence aside from the leftover ringing in his ears.

Habit more than smell lures him into the dining room to revisit the devastation burned into his retinas ten years previous; blood splattered onto the bone white table, sprayed against wallpaper and forming dark pools on the marble floor. Simonetta Sforza-Lecter’s pearls are missing. Count Lecter has no face. Hannibal side-steps the bodies to follow the smeared trail of red that will inevitably lead him into the kitchen, where a child has ceased crawling and hugs his gut, hidden inside a closed cupboard. The cramped, dim space lulls him into a false sense of security as he bleeds, clutching the knife that cut him and shuddering violently, unresponsive to Hannibal opening the little door. The dusting of blood on his face isn’t his own.

Hannibal crouches next to him. “Don’t be afraid,” he says, watching the fire in his eyes begin to smolder, dying. “You survive this. When they find us, don’t resist. It isn’t her.”

Another warm body pours into the room, and for a moment he thinks perhaps he’s lied, terror gripping him tight. When the scent finally reaches his nose and oozes through the frozen wall of panic, he exhales and unfurls his spine to stand. He closes the cupboard with the mute child inside and positions himself in front of it almost protectively.

“You’ve got brain on your shoe,” Frederick points out. His chest is drenched in red.

“This room is not meant for you.”

“Why not?” Frederick says wryly. “Is it too personal for you to share with me? _Hmm._ I’m dead and still nothing changes.”   

“Are you going to haunt me as well, Frederick?”

“I have things I need to say to you.”

“Didn’t you always?”

“You can’t hurt me anymore. That part of us is over.”

He observes the blood gushing from the gaping hole in Frederick’s chest, trickling down his pants. It forms a puddle on the floor and merges with the child’s lost blood.

“So you’re going to listen to me, Hannibal. You owe me this.”

There isn’t any point in arguing with the dead.

“I loved you,” Frederick hisses. “I don’t know why. You’re awful. Do you even feel anything? Anything at all? You don’t. You don’t know _how_ to feel, and she is incapable. You _freaks_ belong together.”

“Frederick, I’m—”

 _“Don’t_ , ‘cause you’re not. You’re not sorry, not really.” He steps closer. “I hope you live forever,” he says, his breath hot against Hannibal’s cheek. “Because I want you to suffer. I want it to hurt.”

He frames Hannibal’s face with his hands and Hannibal allows it, intrigued. “She’s playing with you, you know, seeing if you’re up for it. A part of you wants to go to her, right? But when she’s tired of you, and she _will_ get tired, she’ll throw you away like she did before, like you did to me.” Frederick smiles bitterly. “…and like you’ll do to Will Graham, because you just can’t help yourself.”

“I love him,” Hannibal murmurs. He is sure of it.

“You get confused,” Frederick says with pursed lips, condescending. He brushes his thumb over Hannibal’s closed mouth, looking wistful. His eyes darken with regret and he sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth. “You should have loved me or killed me. Why don’t you put him out of his misery? Kill him before she does. Then kill her too.”

“Kill them all.”

Hannibal instinctively shifts toward the direction of Francis’ voice, but the hands caressing his jaw suddenly jerk him forward, demanding his attention.

Frederick is gone.

“Only I can understand you,” Mischa says. “You belong to me.”  

**_“Hannibal?”_ **

White-hot pain.

**_“You’re burning up.”_ **

She holds him close, whispering honeyed words in a hushed tone that holds no real warmth and never did.

Something is making an awful noise.

 

* * *

 

Movement and the sound of an injured animal startles Will from his dreams, his instincts primed and ready to help any dog in need. But it’s not a dog.

It's Hannibal.

Heavy under the thick fog of sleep, Will slowly comes to the realization that this isn’t his bed. The recollection of last night’s activities makes his stomach tie in anxious knots, but it doesn’t explain the ceaseless shivering against his side, or the waves of oppressive heat and upset rolling off the boy next to him. Early morning light leaks through the small divide between the curtains and Will uses it to seek out Hannibal’s fitful tossing and turning form. His breaths are ragged. In the dark Will can barely make out the pained expression on his face, but the moment he sees it, he sits upright.

“Hannibal?”

He suspects Hannibal normally wakes up at the drop of a pen, but not while caught in the throes of a stress-induced nightmare. Stress he doesn’t trust Will to understand. Not that Will spent very long complaining about it yesterday. He was all too pleased to be distracted, to let go of it all.

Weighing the pros and cons, and well aware that he shouldn’t risk it, he nudges Hannibal’s shoulder and checks his forehead. “You’re burning up,” Will says, now sufficiently worried. He knows better, but he sweeps his fingers through Hannibal’s tousled hair, wanting to do _something_ for him, but Hannibal flinches away from the touch with teeth bared and Will wisely resigns himself to wait. He’d rather not get punched or bitten, but Hannibal’s distress pains him. He repeats Hannibal’s name instead, hoping his voice might eventually pull him from sleep or at least provide some reassurance along the way. It doesn’t work, until it does.

Like a man drowning at sea, Hannibal breaks the surface gasping and choking on something that doesn’t exist. It’s difficult but Will stops himself from hovering, afraid to touch when blown, disoriented eyes don’t immediately recognize him, seeing something, _someone_ else entirely, before they blink rapidly and focus. His chest still heaves, but he seems to understand where he is, and who Will is. Will wants to place his hand over the erratic beating of Hannibal’s heart, if that might slow it. He stays where he is.  

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Hannibal’s closes his eyes for a moment too long. “Bad dreams.”

Will opens his mouth only to shut it, briefly dragging his tongue over his dry lips. He can’t ask why Hannibal won’t just tell him what’s going on, because the last time Hannibal made such a confession, Will turned him away. Not wanting to ruin the fragile peace, not yet ready for the harsh slap of reality, and grasping for Doctor Du Maurier’s advice—advice that got him laid—he asks instead, “How often does this happen?”

“It doesn’t,” is Hannibal’s clipped reply. It surprises Will and he watches helplessly, hurt, as Hannibal scrambles free from the sheets. He won’t meet Will’s eyes. Is he _embarrassed?_ “Excuse me.” 

Hannibal shutting himself away in the bathroom should send Will a clear message. However, he doesn’t lock the door behind him, and Will blows out his breath in mild resentment at the lack of an audible _click._ He listens to the running water, feels the cozy heat seeping out from underneath the door and warming his toes, and remembers that they’ve been here before.  

Why is everything so complicated between them, so risky?

After a few minutes he invites himself into the humid, painfully bright room. He announces his presence with plenty of noise, and he relieves himself first, glancing nervously at the closed curtains in his peripheral. Steam floods his mouth and nose as he steps into the shower. The air is hardly breathable, and the water scalds his skin. Hannibal ignores him, preoccupied with staring at his upturned palms as the water beats down on them. Will presses his chest to Hannibal’s back and rests his chin on his shoulder, wondering what it is Hannibal currently sees in his hands.

“What changed your mind, Will? Why did you agree to see me?”

At the questions, Will adjusts his chin and wraps his arms around Hannibal’s waist, relieved that he isn’t being kicked out. “I’m having an existential crisis, so I started seeing a new psychiatrist.”

“Did it help?”

“Depends on who you ask,” Will says. “I’m tired of you fucking with my head. Tired of denying myself. I let myself be selfish, I did what I always wanted to do…I took.”

Hands cover Will’s. “How did it feel?”

He responds honestly, drawn to the heat in front of him. “It was terrifying. I knew you would tire of me eventually and I thought if I finally said yes, last night might be it. But you felt good, so good. And I’m not entirely convinced that I was right,” he says, leaning forward, as close as he can possibly be, “I don’t think you can let me go, no more than I can refuse you in the end. I don’t know when things changed for you, but I know what I saw yesterday, and before that—you needed me. As much as I need you.”

The following silence is almost cruel. 

“It was fun for me,” Hannibal decides. “Scaling your walls.”

“I feel like I’m still climbing yours.”

“It’s easier this way, Will,” Hannibal says, softly.

Clinging to hope, Will asks, “What are we? Don’t tell me I’m your psychiatrist. Or your friend.”

He feels Hannibal twist around in his grasp and he shuts his eyes on an impulse. After a moment Hannibal takes a step back, pulling Will with him under the stream, and soon enough the sensation of long fingers sliding up the back of his neck and threading through his curls compels him to open his eyes, blinking away the sting of the water. “Don’t reduce this to a fling just because you’re scared,” he says. “It’s different for you this time. This, us.”

“ _Mon chéri_ ,” Hannibal says, and Will decides he likes that, _really_ likes it. He likes seeing him like this, too, wet and bare and needing to be touched. “I’ve wanted you for so long, and now I don’t know what to do, like the hound who at last sinks its teeth into the cat and doesn't understand when it ceases to run.”

“Answer me,” Will murmurs.

“I do need you,” Hannibal says. “And I don’t like it.”

Will just stares at him.

“I dislike how you make me feel,” Hannibal continues, his eyes searching Will’s. “Before you, loneliness was a foreign concept to me. I dislike that no one else can fill this hole you’ve dug inside my chest. It _aches._ You are precious to me, Will.” He pauses. “You also make me vulnerable.”

Sighing, Will reaches over Hannibal’s shoulder and shuts the water off. Hannibal spreads his fingers over Will’s ribs, catching him off guard. “Still,” he says, and Will reluctantly meets his gaze again, listening to the rhythmic pitter patter of water droplets hitting porcelain, counting the seconds. “You are fascinating, and absurdly kind, but I see darkness in your heart akin to the shadows in mine. You would deny it, but I see it and you’ve proved it. You have a natural curiosity and a selfish streak you should indulge more often. I want to see it. I want you, and I have no interest in sharing.”

Who could possibly steal him away? He holds his breath under Hannibal’s touch. “Well, neither do I.”

One corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitches upward in obvious delight.

Things don’t work out this easily, not for Will. “You’d really be okay with that?” he asks skeptically.

“I want you,” Hannibal repeats, as if it’s all very simple.

It’s a little _too_ sweet, but beneath Hannibal’s confident exterior, Will spies the veiled panic, the thing that drove Hannibal to him in his most vulnerable moments, and is still doing so. It reminds him that Hannibal hasn’t told him everything. ‘ _It’s easier this way.’_ Hannibal doesn’t trust him to know, doesn’t trust him to not overreact. He lost that trust. He’ll earn it back. Du Maurier would probably suggest that he proceed without it and be grateful for this much. 

He’s still reeling from Hannibal’s suggestion that they see each other, exclusively.

An ‘ _I want you’_ is not an ‘ _I love you_ ,’ but it warms his heart nevertheless. With Hannibal, it might be as close as he’s going to get.

“You’d better not be fucking with me,” he says, although he won’t entertain the fantasy that he would do anything about it if Hannibal was. “Don’t look at me like that, either,” he sighs, seeing Hannibal on the verge of another one of his gloating, self-satisfied smiles.

Exasperated, he all but drags Hannibal into a kiss that wipes the smile away almost immediately. With his hands reaching up to cover Will's cooling shoulders, Hannibal inches closer to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding experimentally against Will's as soon as he obediently parts his lips. It’s slow and so familiar now that it hurts. Will doubts they have time for this, with the few hours they have left before the day begins, but the memory of last night is still fresh in his mind and Hannibal feels more receptive to him now than ever.

Which is why he doesn’t question it when his hands begin wandering with a mind of their own, getting to know Hannibal again, gliding against wet skin and grasping forcefully at the backs of his thighs. Holding on. Hannibal is holding onto him, too. Something's wrong…

“When you’re ready to tell me what’s really happening,” Will says, hating how the quiet little room amplifies the sound of his insecurity over their quickened breathing. “You’ll let me know.”

He wants to believe it when Hannibal says yes.

 

* * *

 

Her scars are few and well-hidden. Those left behind from the laparoscopic hysterectomy are more pronounced than the rest.

She brushes her thumb across the ridges and indentations in her skin and stares at the naked reflection in the mirror. Though they’ve long-since healed, she scratches at them, not for the first time imagining the prominent, smiling scar she could have chosen to have instead. But the estimated recovery time was more important than the passing amusement of a matching set between herself and her brother.

Someone murmurs Doctor Du Maurier’s first name. Her imposter raises her brows, glancing over her bare shoulder. Another woman’s pale body whispers against the sheets, stirring from the draft in the partially empty bed.

Pink tongue darting out to wet her still-red lips, Mischa calls out softly, “I’m here,” and abandons the mirror to rejoin a squinting and somewhat puzzled Alana Bloom.

She slides in beside her and kisses the slightly older woman awake, already erasing her mild confusion with a delicate touch that brings a wide smile to her sleepy face. The threat of questions is safely averted when Alana inhales sharply from the sensation of breath blowing against her breast, successfully distracted. Alana often slips into her therapist voice whenever she suspects something might be wrong. Mischa finds it grating. 

“Would you go with me to Italy?”

“That’s…specific,” Alana says after a beat, cradling the back of Mischa’s skull, her fingers tangled in loose brown curls. “That sounds a lot like eloping. Are we eloping?”

“Is that a no?”

“When were you planning on doing this? Or telling me?”

“Whenever it suits us,” Mischa says, sucking against Alana’s skin until it bruises under her teeth. There is some enjoyment in it for her, but it isn’t sexual. She isn’t aroused.

“Well, since you asked me so nicely, and since you’re such a romantic,” Alana says, sarcastic, but fond of her lover’s blunt nature. “I’ll think about it.”

Mischa makes a noncommittal noise.

She will take Alana, but only to provide company for her brother should he need it. She imagines it might be difficult for him, at first, to readjust. She hopes not. They will settle down someplace in southern Italy, and when their bond is reestablished and stronger than ever, and it is necessary, she will feed him Alana’s heart. She will teach him everything she’s learned since her departure. They will be a family again.

In the beginning of the aftermath, she attempted to make a companion when she recognized the uncomfortable twinge in her belly as regret. In the end it was good sense and a burning curiosity that kept her far away from Hannibal, passing the time by entertaining herself with a personal project; children. But no matter the subtle similarities between them and Hannibal, she felt nothing. She could not recreate the bond. She killed the girl. Her son she tucked away into an orphanage in Russia. He made the mistake of having her eyes, and he cried too often.

Hannibal never cried.

He is as handsome and cunning as she imagined he would be, as dangerous as she dared to hope. He has a love for grandeur that she blames entirely on their mother. But where materialism doesn’t come as a surprise, where _things_ can be reasoned with—his human attachments cannot. Specifically, Will Graham.

She would allow him his friend for the moment, as she’s had plenty of toys in his absence, but the man poses a threat to Hannibal’s loyalty to her. What kind of person would inspire such devotion in her brother, who adores everything and no one? What makes this man different from the rest, from Frederick Chilton—or what’s left of him residing in her freezer—or from Anthony Dimmond, the valentine she plans to send next? Why would Hannibal hide Doctor Graham from her when Frederick’s gift was received so well?

She will study the man more closely during future sessions, she decides. She puts an end to Alana’s playful pleas for attention with clinical touches that don’t mean anything, her stomach tightening at the much more tempting thought of breakfast. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know how to feel about this chapter? it's dialogue-heavy, at least for my writing, and a bit busy establishing things that will be important later. my head has been fuzzy throughout writing the last half and the editing process. there will be more 'action' next time. 
> 
> love y'all.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a brand new chapter and a story summary that doesn’t suck!

They both know they won’t be participating in any professional, _socially acceptable_ form of therapy when they meet again, despite being too polite to acknowledge this when they part.

So when Hannibal strides into Will’s office after two painfully long days, eyes flashing bright with obvious relief at the sight and familiar smell of his psychiatrist, while Will silently takes in the scarf wound tight around his boy’s throat masking the evidence of their recent union, it’s all too easy to close the distance and begin helping Hannibal out of his overcoat.

And the rest. He can’t just _stop_ , not with Hannibal pressing his cold cheek into the heat of Will’s skin, and holding onto him like he does, as if it’s been too long. Will won’t pretend that’s what this is, he isn’t stupid—Hannibal’s unspoken fears have been plaguing him. The nightmares. The things he won’t share, the stress he refuses to unload is slowly taking its toll, Will can see that. Hannibal is soft. And as much as Will might like him gentle, as achingly sweet as it is, it points to deception. Or worse, _fear._

He presses his lips to the boy’s forehead in a moment of weakness but withdraws when he feels the confused wrinkling of Hannibal’s brow.

He tries to walk away.

Fingertips dig into his shoulders and slam his back against the wall.

“Will.”

Steady, warm breaths tickle his face. Will’s breathing isn’t so even. “All right. Hello,” he concedes. “Hey.”

Hannibal tastes good, he always does, but the sensation of his tongue slipping past Will’s open mouth and taking control reignites the gut fire that never seems to completely burn itself out. Hands pushing on his chest keep him in place as he instinctively leans inward, chasing the kiss. He sometimes forgets just how strong Hannibal is, how capable—there’s a steadfast grip on his hips now and he can see how, in between the nipping teeth and the almost desperate clawing at the clothes between them, Alana saw something totally _other_ than the mischievous boy Will sees.

He gathers the loose ends of the scarf in his hand and pulls, but the strong scent seeping from the material ruins the way Hannibal stiffens in delicious anticipation.

Cigarettes. _Not fire, not smoke._

Will’s hand turns into a fist around the fabric. “You don’t smoke.”

“It was Anthony’s,” Hannibal says easily. “Do you like it?”

Will aims a skeptical look at Hannibal who, despite his softened eyes, is biting his tongue.

“You can be so transparent,” Will scolds. “Did you expect I’d be jealous?”

“I hoped.”

“I’m not the type,” he lies, while wrapping the scarf tightly around his hand, tugging Hannibal nearer.

“Careful, Will,” Hannibal says to the stretching fabric.

“I’ll buy you a new one.” Will hesitates, rethinking his next choice of words, but dares to add, “Or I can use my hands. But you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you?”

He slides his fingers beneath the material and touches bare skin, grasping Hannibal’s throat and eagerly watching his reaction; a taken aback expression that stops the shy blush threatening to grace Will’s own cheeks. His confidence soars as Hannibal wets his lips and swallows, adam’s apple bobbing under Will’s spread fingers.

“You don’t have to rile me up anymore,” Will says, timidly happy as maroon eyes blow black. “You only need to ask.”

They’re hurtling fast and hard toward something close to what he can only assume is the end, despite the sparse reassurances that tumble from Hannibal’s lips. This thing was born from disaster and Will doesn’t expect to make it out in one piece. The sense of foreboding that’s been pestering his nervous existence for so long doesn’t fade, it just hurts less when he can look directly into beautifully dark eyes and kiss them closed, as if he could protect anyone, when he can’t even be bothered to help himself.

Since it’s what Hannibal wishes, Will doesn’t fight being thrown back onto the chaise lounge. The setting sun in the corner of his eye is blinding, disappearing only when Hannibal drops into his lap and leans over him to unceremoniously yank the hem of his shirt from the confines of his pants. The belt buckle is his next and Will relaxes into the chaise, growing heavier with each breath and his eyelids drooping in satisfaction as he watches Hannibal work. At one point he pauses, deft hands stilling, heightened focus shifting to meet Will’s eyes, and the question is there: _What is it?_

“Nothing,” Will says, stretching out his arms to place his hands on Hannibal’s upper thighs, thumbs mapping out aimless patterns until Hannibal looks away.

 

* * *

 

“I love you,” he pants before he can censor himself.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he adds, as an afterthought.

Hannibal holds onto Will’s hips with a shaking possessiveness and swallows determinedly, moaning around his mouthful. The deep vibration leaves Will incoherent, pleasure dragging up his spine and spreading through his veins, a sedative that leaves him quivering and spent. He stares helplessly at the blush coloring Hannibal’s face, the proof that he’s just as affected as Will is, until the boy opens his eyes and they make contact.

He sits back, softly blowing his breath. A persuasive breeze caresses Will’s wet cock and the boy pressing delicate, mockingly chaste kisses to the tip and lapping up their mess is almost pouting, head tilted to look up at Will from beneath blond lashes.

“Would you kill for me?”

 _Don’t_ , Will wants to cry out. “Hannibal,” he says instead, and still it comes out pleading.

“I would,” Hannibal murmurs. He looks obsessed, bordering on worship. He rests his skull against Will’s knee. “For you, Will. If you asked me to.”

“God damn it, Hannibal,” Will breathes, because he’s so close. It’s sickening. “Stop, just stop.” He thumps his head against the chaise in defeat, still tense, still aroused, vulnerable and dissected and at Hannibal’s mercy. He realizes his hands are covering the fingers digging into his hips, both of them reluctant to let go of each other. “Don’t say things like that,” he says, his voice threatening to break as he scowls at the dusty ceiling of his office. “I’m not having this discussion with you, I’m not going to even entertain…to…” _To get off on it._

“You said…”

He knows what he said.

“Say it again,” Hannibal demands.  

Will inhales and shuts his eyes, absently brushing his fingers over Hannibal’s persistent grip to offer small comfort for the response he’s about to give. “No. You’re being cruel.”

“Because I want to hear you say it when I don’t have your cock in my mouth?”

He tries not to flinch. “Not today,” he says, oozing tired patience. He tucks himself back into his pants and pulls up his fly.

He grunts as a considerable weight smothers his thighs and stomach, and then his chest as Hannibal promptly lies on top of him. Hannibal makes himself comfortable and seems quite pleased with himself, all things considered, eyes flicking meaningfully to the clock. “Perhaps it’s for the best. Our hour is over, Doctor Graham.”

Hannibal is no longer his patient, those files have all been destroyed, but Will doesn’t have it left in him to argue.

“You don’t hate me, then?” He is only somewhat joking.

He tastes himself when Hannibal kisses him leisurely, holding his jaw still as pointed teeth tug lightly against the end of his tongue and bottom lip. Will makes a half-hearted noise calling for caution when the teeth bite, pulling, encouraging him to lift himself up into the kiss. He grabs a fistful of hair at the back of Hannibal’s head and forces their faces together, heavily considering using his own teeth when he feels the hint of an arrogant smile pressed against his mouth and warm breath on his cheek as they both struggle for air.

“I can wait,” Hannibal murmurs against Will’s lips.

To make a point, Will shifts beneath him and bends his knee, his thigh brushing the hard, suspiciously damp place between Hannibal’s legs. His eyebrows shoot up questioningly at Hannibal’s appreciative sigh. “Can you, kiddo?” he asks.

Hannibal alternates between sulking and shamelessly rubbing himself against Will’s leg and in that moment, Will is smitten.

 

* * *

 

Most of Doctor Du Maurier’s things have gathered a fine layer of dust. It’s too much to have collected within the week, so it’s something Will neglected to notice during his last visit. For how nice the décor is, it’s surprising how little effort she bothers to spend on the upkeep.

But maybe not. The second day she welcomes him into her house she’s smiling, and once again it never reaches her cold eyes. It still doesn’t strike him as unfriendly or dishonest, nor guarded. She isn’t easily impressed, and she probably cares for very little outside of her interests, whatever they are. That’s fair enough to Will. She isn’t here to be his friend and he honestly doesn’t care about the state of her home.

“I hope you don’t mind my saying so,” Du Maurier says in her normal hushed tone, “But you seem different this morning, Doctor Graham.”

He takes his seat. “How’s that?”

“You’ve relaxed considerably.”

“I’ve accepted my fate.”

She waits for him to continue.

“I guess not entirely,” he says reluctantly. “I’ve adjusted my attitude, like you suggested. I got what I wanted. But the bad feeling hasn’t left.”

“It’s not guilt,” she notes.

“No, it’s something else.”

Du Maurier leans back, crossing her leg over her knee. “But he did make you feel happy?”

His cheeks are warming and he struggles more than usual to maintain eye contact. “Yes, he did. He does. And the pain that comes with it.”

He swears Du Maurier’s eyes twinkle, then. “Do you make him happy?”

“ _Everything_ amuses him. It’s obnoxious.”

“I think you know what I mean.”

He focuses on the particles of dust floating through the sunbeams. “What Hannibal feels for me, I’m afraid to say. It scares him more than it scares me, which is…terrifying, honestly.”

“Hannibal,” Du Maurier says, pronouncing it carefully, as if it’s a triumph to learn this mystery boy’s name. She blinks slowly, like a cat sleepy and satisfied after a full meal. “You’re protective of your heart Doctor Graham, but love makes messes of us all. It often hurts.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

“Painfully is the only way some of us know how.”

At the end of the session she offers him a glass of wine and he cautiously accepts, not yet ready to face the chill outside. The walls, he notices, are bare beyond the living area. There are no pictures of friends or family, only framed achievements and curiously empty space, as well as the occasional withering plant in a corner. She must be spending an extraordinary amount of time at Alana’s. The kitchen is regularly used, however, smelling faintly of disinfectant and a mouth-watering meat that must’ve been prepared earlier.

“I haven’t seen any photographs around,” he says, hoping it doesn’t come off as prying. He’s tired of talking about Hannibal.

“I live a semi-secluded lifestyle apart from my family. I don’t speak with them,” Du Maurier explains, placing the glasses on the kitchen island and filling them less than halfway. Will doesn’t get the sense that this is a sensitive subject, she appears to be a remarkably strong woman, but he refrains from interrupting anyway, sipping his wine so she can elaborate. “I did have a son. When I was very young, living alone in a foreign country with no stability, ill-equipped to take care of a baby. I’ve never been good with children. I was cruel as a girl, myself. Grew up terrorizing the little ones. I’m not designed to be a mother.”

“I don’t remember my mother,” Will confides. “She left us early on.” It’s been a long time since he thought of her, and ages since he felt some sort of understanding, but he will always harbor some resentment.

As if she can read his thoughts, Du Maurier flashes him a stiff smile. “And you turned out all right, didn’t you?”

He can’t tell if she’s digging at him.

What’s startling isn’t her sudden decision to cross boundaries and gently touch his hand—but how drained of blood her fingertips are, as cold and dead as the ice in her eyes and the numbness on her tongue as she says empty words that should’ve been encouraging, “Do you want to know what I think? I think you will survive this, Will Graham.” She smiles, showing her teeth. A part of him wants to flee. “Life is looking up.”

“Thank you,” he says. He moves his hand away. “I think.”

 

* * *

 

Frederick proves himself far wiser dead than alive, his ghost merely a fabrication of Hannibal’s imagination, and therefore more tolerable than the real thing. Hannibal isn’t haunted in the literal sense as he slices through vegetables against the cutting board and straight into one of his fingers, blood spurting and staining ingredients faster than he can bring the wound to his lips and suck it dry. It isn’t the first injury he’s sustained today—his muscles ache and burn and he’s certain there will be minor bruising. Anthony’s scarf hangs torn and discarded over the back of a chair.

When he stitches himself back together, he’s just as absent-minded as before. He has no appetite.

_‘I love you.’_

Words often said in the heat of the moment, lies Hannibal has tolerated for years, but Will meant them. It was an honest slip and his clumsy nature is part of why Hannibal finds him so endearing…the furious embarrassment that colors his cheeks pink, the hardened line of his mouth and how it pouts in frustration, more than just a disapproving frown. His forever agitated Will, saying the words Hannibal has wanted to hear from him for so long. It feels worlds better than the cheap thrill he first imagined when he entered his psychiatrist’s office and decided this beautiful mess of a man should be his. He’s _giddy._

He’s just finished setting the table when the doorbell rings.

She is as he imagined her, standing under the golden light on Lady Murasaki’s front porch with a bottle of wine in her hand and snow melting in her dark hair.

“You got my invitation.”

“You reached Mr. Dimmond long before I did,” she says in her quiet way. “I’m so pleased. You still know exactly what I'm thinking.”

“I was never any good at denying you,” he admits. “Mischa.”

She smells like seaside decay poorly masked by flowers, and her irises are as blue as the bitter cold in their father’s eyes just before she blew them out of their sockets and painted the walls with the stuff the Lecter line is made of.

“My baby brother,” Mischa coos, stepping forward and cradling Hannibal’s face as if he is something precious. She doesn’t snap his neck. There is no knife in his gut. The spray of Count Lecter’s blood on his cheek and lips and drenching his eyelashes, the leftover ringing in his ears, is just a memory. She kisses him hello and even the great Dragon rears its head and recoils, but Hannibal doesn’t.

“I have so much to ask you,” he confesses, thinking of the scalpel inside his sleeve.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t have an excuse for writing so slowly—nothing has changed, I’m still in love with this story.

“You look so much like Mama. You know it, don’t you?”  

Ignoring the sting of Mischa’s words, Hannibal rises from the head of the table and takes a familiar string of pearls from his pocket. Mischa’s brow lifts, her ghostly pale eyes darting to the heirloom. Her jaw and shoulders tense as Hannibal moves to stand behind her, but she remains seated. He brushes her dark hair to one side and considers how easy it would be to strangle her, and how very aware of that they both are in this moment.

He sets down the scalpel that’s been burning a hole through his sleeve for the past half-hour and fixes the clasp at the back of her neck. Pearls settle against her clavicle. Frederick’s blood has been washed away but Hannibal can still smell it, practically see it staining his fingertips. Mischa lays her hand over the scalpel, considering, and Hannibal returns to his seat. She smiles softly to herself and picks up her fork and knife instead. The sounds of utensils cutting through meat, screeching against porcelain and teeth tearing into muscle drown out the screams of a woman ringing in Hannibal’s ears.

“Thank you,” Mischa says. “For humoring me.”

Hannibal numbly watches her eat, ignoring his own meal laid before him.

She lifts her eyes. “Feeling ill?”  

“You’re here,” he says at last, cursing how lost he sounds.

“I am,” Mischa coos.

He can’t help but stare at her. “Ten years ago, you cut me open and left me for dead. I was eight.”

She doesn’t stop eating. “Hannibal, now you’re really being dishonest.”

He wets his lips, takes a moment to compose himself. “You terrorized me. And murdered our parents.”

“I wasn’t particularly attached,” she says by way of explanation. “But I’m with you now _._ Imagine my relief at finding you, the way that you are, discovering you’re like me…”

Hannibal quietly disagrees. Mischa is deluded, and Frederick was wrong; they are two entirely different kinds of crazy. He watches her drink.

“I see what you’ve done,” she says after swallowing. “And I see what you’re capable of. I see _you._ ”

“Ah yes, my potential,” Hannibal finishes for her. Tiredly. He’s heard this all before, in dreams.

A muscle twitches, the barest hint of Mischa’s annoyance, so achingly familiar that it almost transports him to another time and place where he was young and vulnerable. Now it gives him a dull sense of satisfaction.

“No matter how much you wanted her, Lady Murasaki never saw you, did she?”

That does get his attention, sinking its roots deep.

“Neither does Will Graham,” she adds. “And he won’t, never.”

Only after her tight-lipped smile does he notice he’s standing, so quickly that he sends the chair clattering to the floor. His head is swimming a bit. His body has already fallen into the fighting stance it remembers from his old lessons, taught to him by Lady Murasaki herself. He stares at his hands, feeling betrayed as he flexes fingers that still want to maim.  

“Did I strike a nerve?” his sister asks, smiling again. “Hannibal, sit. They are unharmed.”

He remains standing. When he speaks, he feels winded. “You shouldn’t touch what doesn’t belong to you,” he warns, hoping to reason with her this way, a way that he knows she understands, while he stifles the surge of possessiveness.

She waves her hand dismissively and takes another delicate bite. _Save it._

“I know how much you value them,” she says. “But I’m willing to work with it.”

“You’re assuming you and I have a relationship to work with.”

“He’s obsessed with you. They all are.”

She’s ignoring him. Indifference is hard to feign at this point, but he tries. “Why are you here, Mischa, to fill the emptiness inside of you? Is this feeling regret? Or do you intend to finish me?”  

“No, that’s past.”

“I made a place for myself here, using the same logic. Silly me.”

Mischa smiles. “Is that why you’re so painfully unhappy?”

He can do nothing but grudgingly release his held breath. 

“But I’ve always been able to read you,” she says, sounding very self-congratulatory, and not far from himself sometimes, he thinks. “You’re so unhappy. Is that why you fill the _emptiness_ ,” she hisses, standing slowly, “With men and women who bend backwards for you, desperate enough to say yes, while you pine for those who will never return your affections? You’re not all that charming or difficult to resist. Trailing after your aunt like her good guard dog, begging her to just touch you, just a little to ease the need. Your infatuation with the psychiatrist is sickening, and your dependency on sex and drugs is beneath us both.”

She pauses a foot or so away, drawing her shoulders back. She scans him. “You’re in an embarrassing state, but I’m here to make it better.”

“What are you offering?”

“The thing no one else can give you, not even Will Graham; I accept you, Hannibal, as you are. All that you are.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but she persists, raising her voice.

“I’ll take you anywhere in the world, I’ll let you have all your earthly pleasures, I’ll bribe you with anything your heart desires and I will teach you all that I have to offer,” she says, “But I know all I really need to do is wait for Will Graham to reject you. Then I’ll count the seconds until you come running back to me.”

_She’s lying._

She’s not, she doesn’t need to.

He keeps his eyes on the scalpel, so far away, muscles going rigid as she envelops him. She'd crept closer than he’d thought. He’s surprised he didn’t detect the gun holstered to her hip earlier, but she doesn’t reach for it. She isn’t going to use it.

She doesn’t need to.

“What he’ll do to you,” she whispers, curling her fingers protectively over the base of his neck. “It’s more painful than what I could ever do to you. Ask him to go with us, you’ll see. I’m only sorry I had to show you like this.”

He could kill them both, be rid of it all.

She meets his eyes. She looks sad. Behind the veil, there is nothing. “And if by the end of our time together you still want to kill me, because of course you do…well, give it your best, my little Count.” 

The frozen landscape of her face surveys his untouched plate.

“You should have eaten,” she says, withdrawing her hands to carefully cut through the meat and lift a fork to his lips. “It’s cold.”

“Perhaps you had something in common,” he murmurs, gaze lowering as he dips his head to take his first bite of Anthony Dimmond’s heart. He feels sick. He needs Will.

Mischa smiles approvingly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's more.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *spins around in my chair with great dramatics and a deeply haunted, wide-eyed stare*

After gentle but persistent direction, Dante plops his hindquarters on the floor following the signal to sit.

“Good boy,” Will mumbles, bending down to stretch out his hand. The stringy drool pooling in his palm is less than pleasant, and Dante’s breath is starting to stink as he leaves puppyhood behind, but Will is smiling. He can still smile at something as mundane as this. An insecure part of him insists it’s pathetic, but as he ruffles the collie behind the ears he feels comfortably numb.  

And then he’s blinded as headlights sear through the windows of his home and burn into the back of his skull, lighting the primal part of his brain on fire.

He’s as bad as Pavlov’s dogs.

There will be a time when he’ll have no excuses left in him, when he can’t pretend to not know what’s going on here, and it might be soon. There will be consequences.

To his credit, Hannibal at least tries to convince him this is a spontaneous visit—it’s almost casual, the mesmerizing fluidity of his movements, the flirtatious banter is back and he’s gentle with the dogs, but Will knows better. He knows the moment dark eyes lock onto his, as empty as he’s ever seen them, empty of all emotion, real or faked. It’s eerie and distracting, and for a moment they aren’t maroon, they’re almost blue.

At some point Will reaches out to take Hannibal’s face in his hands and stare hard into the nothingness, willing it to dissipate as his selfish need in him rises to the back of his throat. Probably as a distraction, Hannibal tips forward to kiss him. And fuck him, it works. He steals the fear right out of Will’s mouth and swallows it whole.

_Didn’t really want to know, anyway._

“I’m curious if I can make you confess your undying love to me again,” Hannibal muses, content to close his eyes and let Will alone fumble with the belts, zippers, and buttons until something pops loose and bounces on the floor, sending one of the dogs chasing after it. “How far can I push you now?”

Will can’t wait to get inside of him. He’s sweating, quivering like a junkie too long without his fix. When did it fucking get like this? “Thought you could wait to hear it when I’m good and ready.”

“I can be persistent.”

_With that mouth of yours, I’m sure._

“I know,” Will says as he hastily undresses them both, stopping short as he’s made aware of Hannibal’s…lack of physical affirmation.

Before he can address it, he’s thrown back onto the bed and his skull smacks the headboard. There’s no time to recover with Hannibal climbing onto his lap—he opens his mouth to protest, closes it when Hannibal procures a pill from what seemed to be thin air. He has clever fingers.

“Do you trust me?”

“No,” Will answers, deadly serious.

“Don’t swallow, let it dissolve.”

He lets it happen though, opens his mouth to the prodding finger and tastes something bitter pushed beneath his tongue. He closes his lips around the digit, tastes salt, ponders for a relatively short time, and sucks lightly. His embarrassment dissipates at the lamps flickering to life in Hannibal’s dark eyes, the inquisitive look on his face and the slightest hint of a pleased smile tugging at the otherwise stone corners of his lips. His finger traces the edges of Will’s tongue, dares to creep out to skim his teeth, push deeper inside until Will thinks he might gag, but doesn’t.

When the pill dissolves, they kiss.

And Hannibal is in bed with him, tangled around him, gorgeous and glorious but stoic as Will thrusts and tries his hardest to make him react. He thinks it must be a game.

His face is melting and he can’t get enough air in his lungs and then he knows he fucked up somewhere, he didn’t pass the test.

It’s a blur, and then he descends into darkness.

 

* * *

 

It takes all his energy to twist around, limbs sloppy and heavy, and see the dark figure crouched over the foot of the bed outlined by the silver of the moon. His tongue is thick and his eyelids flutter and the room is spinning all around him, soaring up and plummeting down like he’s on his boat and he can’t fully comprehend what’s happened to him, but somewhere deep within the house the dogs are growling.

Hands take his face, redirect him to the boy beside him, who has blipped back into existence but is clothed this time. “Will, can you hear me?” 

_“Nmh.”_

“Good. I need to speak with you.”

He must fall asleep, or lose track of time, because it feels like forever before his eyes slide open again.

He itches at the thing lodged in his vein. His wrist is pinned for his efforts.

“You won’t lie to me,” Hannibal says, sounding cold as he pulls Will’s prying fingers aside and locks them within his own. “It will be too much trouble for you now. May I confess something?

“I indirectly caused the death of Mason Verger.”

Will doesn't understand.

“Frederick is dead, but I did not kill him. Hours ago, I murdered Anthony Dimmond and consumed his heart.

“Do you still love me, Will?”

_Must be a dream._

“Mischa is alive. She wants us to move on.

“I want to go with her. She is all the family I have left.

“I know you don’t approve,” Hannibal adds as Will becomes visibly distressed, squirming despite the cocktail of drugs in his system. “But it doesn’t amuse me now. No more games.

“Perhaps I meant to hurt Francis. I lured him into my home. I knew what I was doing. I suspect the intention was there, although not conscious. I think you know it as well—this is who I am, who I was meant to be.

“Will, I need you to understand…”

_No._

“I need you by my side. I need your guidance…”

_“Nnh…”_

“Do you love me?”

“ _No_ ,” he whispers, horrified.

His arm is suddenly hanging off the bed, hand empty.

“Can’t even say it,” Will rasps after what feels like a century. “But…you want me to.”

“Is it what you need to say yes?” Comes the distant reply, across the room.

Will says nothing.

“Accept me as I am.” Back again now. Demanding.

“Gonna…kill me…if I don’t?”

“You should know better than to tempt me.”

Unbelievably, Will’s eyes well up.

“No,” he says.

Hannibal looks like he wants to pounce.

“You…entitled **shit** , _no_ ,” Will spits, and he wants to take it all back, but he _can’t._

_I can’t do this, even if he kills me._

Hannibal’s pupils have become like the eye of a needle, and in his drugged state, Will knows why they seem so damn familiar.

“I know you aren’t blind, Will. You knew I was disinterested, distracted…yet you ignored it in favor of satisfying your own desires. Would you have stopped if I asked you to?”

“‘What’re you trying to fucking imply?” There’s the tear of tape and the dull sting in his arm as it’s removed.

“You have used me just as I’ve used you,” Hannibal says.

_You’re grasping for any justification…_

“I will not ask you again.”

Shutting his eyes does nothing for the tears that spill like fresh blood. He can taste it in his mouth. “You taste like the sun.”

Hannibal ignores Will’s unintelligible murmuring.

Will waits for the killing blow, for sudden pressure on his chest and around his neck, or perhaps for something sharp to be hurled through his heaving stomach. The longer it takes, the more he begins to wish for it. He thinks, maybe, when his mouth is forced open and his tongue slides between teeth, it might be torn from him. He prepares to scream and loses his breath at the deep kiss that sucks against his flesh instead. By the time it ends he’s fallen unconscious.

 

* * *

 

His first thought is so mundane.

The dogs need to be bathed. He wrinkles his nose as he wakes to a writhing mass of them in his foldout bed instead of their own. He slides off the mattress in time to choke on his own vomit, surveys dried stains on the floor and supposes he must have been sick in the night as well. He stumbles to his feet, naked and reeling, and counts the heads of his mutts out of habit. Dante is missing.

A note sits on the edge of the table as he lumbers to the kitchen. He picks it up and it crumples in his fingers as he strains to decipher the cursive writing, in pen:

               

_Be in touch._

_H._

 

It comes to him in bits and pieces.

Francis Dolarhyde.

Mason Verger.

Frederick Chilton.

Anthony Dimmond.

_Will Graham?_

Behind closed eyes, Hannibal is seated at the head of a never-ending feast surrounded by rot and bones and black. Bleeding meat is fed into his open mouth and Bedelia du Maurier stands behind him, hands gripping his shoulders as if he is the very thing that keeps her chilled heart pumping.  

Will is puking again, limbs too weak and shaky to support his weight so he does it on his side and curls into the fetal position.

He feels like he’s dying. Hannibal might walk into the room at any moment, see him like this and feel compelled strike in his moment of weakness. When he deems it safe, he drags himself along the hallway and into the stuffy downstairs bathroom, where he locks the door behind him and collapses into an empty porcelain tub. He sleeps through the howling and mad barking of his dogs, the shouting of men, and the moment his bathroom door is kicked in. He wakes when he feels the cuffs around his wrists. Guns point at every inch of his bare body.

A deep, booming voice calls for his attention.

_“Will Graham, you’re under arrest—for the **murder** of **Hannibal Lecter** and the suspected kidnapping of **Bedelia du Maurier.** ” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a warning, I plan to make what happens next brief, the charges against Will will be dropped and he will go through a period of mourning and great confusion. We will see a distrustful and traumatized Alana, a bit of Jack Crawford possibly, and Will might finally get his shit together. I don’t feel conflicted about this chapter, after reflecting on it for so long and noting that Will did indeed take advantage of Hannibal in certain aspects and knew this was bound to happen along the way. This was always meant to happen. But it won’t be forever.


End file.
